Freaky Friday
by msgenevieve447
Summary: Realising you've packed the wrong shoes to go with your skirt and you have to rethink your whole outfit is bad enough. Being holed up in a hotel bathroom while you get changed into said outfit because you're suddenly sharing your room with a strange British man is a whole lot worse. Captain Swan AU (prompt: Accidental Roommates) COMPLETE, AND THANK YOU FOR READING! Mwah!
1. Chapter 1

The blonde who opens the door of Room 47 in answer to his knock looks confused. Actually, he corrects himself silently, she looks bloody amazing (long blonde hair, skinny jeans plastered to shapely legs, red sweater showing curves in all his favourite places) but still confused. "Um, yes?"

A little confused himself, he checks the piece of paper in his hand, then the room number. He'd knocked rather than use his room key as he'd arrived two hours later than he'd expected, and he felt it was only polite. "Is this forty-seven?"

"Yep."

"Are you E. Swan?"

Her gaze narrows, as though she suspects he's trying to hit on her. He has the feeling being hit on by random males is something that happens to her a lot, and it almost reaffirms his faith in his gender. "Why?"

"I'm K. Jones." He holds up the piece of paper in his hand and tries not to smile too broadly. _Outstanding. _This weekend might not be so dull after all. "Your assigned roommate."

She blinks. "You're not a woman."

"Well spotted, love." He leans against the door frame, silently applauding the administration department of their firm for fucking up so nicely. "And, may I be so bold as to point out, you are definitely the female of the species yourself."

Her gaze narrows even more, but that doesn't disguise the fact that her eyes are very green and quite lovely. "Don't take this the wrong way, but can I see some ID?"

He smiles. _Oh, she's a tough lass. _He pulls his wallet from his back pocket with exaggerated care, then flips it open for her perusal. "It's hardly my best likeness, but it should confirm I'm who I say I am, love."

Unsmiling, she gives his ID a disconcertingly thorough examination. "You work for Hollindale and Woods too?"

He nods. "Boston office."

"Well, _shit_."

"Oh, I don't know. Boston has its moments, but it's not that bad."

"No, I mean they've obviously mixed up the room bookings." Her wide mouth turns down at the corners. "Such a stupid idea in the first place, getting us to room with people from the other offices."

"It's all about the networking, love."

She rolls her eyes. "Don't call me love." Without skipping a beat, she pulls her phone from the back pocket of her jeans with the hand not holding onto the door. "Wait here, I'll call the concierge and get this sorted out."

"Not that this corridor isn't without its charms, love, do you think I could come in and wait while you read them the riot act? My flight was late getting in and I'm not feeling the love for this stupidly oversized suitcase at the moment." She hesitates, obviously still wary of him, and while he knows she's right to feel that way, it stings, perhaps more than it should. "I'm quite harmless, I assure you."

She eyes his suitcase, then gives him a terse nod. "You can come in, but only if you prop the door open with your bag."

"Thank you." _Smart girl, _he thinks as he gives her a reassuring smile. Maybe he should be sharing her irritation, but right now he can't find it in his heart to complain, not when the last two minutes have been the least bored he's felt for months.

He flips idly through the in-house brochures and room service menus while she calls reception, not bothering to disguise the fact that he's shamelessly eavesdropping on her phone conversation. He _does_ disguise the fact that he's studying just how wonderful her bottom looks in those jeans and how delighted he is that she doesn't seem to be having much luck, though, because he's not a _complete _imbecile.

"But that isn't good enough. Look, I know it's a mistake on our firm's part but surely there's another room –" She's scowling at the carpet at her feet, and if looks could set things aflame, they'd be heading for the fire exits. "No, I understand that this is your busiest weekend of the year, but –"

"This is ridiculous," she announces, visibly peeved, a moment later, as she flings her phone onto the double bed closest to the window. _Her_bed, obviously, and again, he does his best not to look too happy with this turn of events, but to be stuck sharing a hotel room with a beautiful blonde who's intrigued him more in a few minutes than any other woman he's met in Boston all year? He can't say he's disappointed. "They say they're fully booked and there's nothing they can do, not unless they have a cancellation tomorrow."

"It's only for three nights," he offers gently, "and we'll be cramming our eager brains with new and exciting things for most of the weekend. You'll hardly see me." Her mouth is still pressed hard into a mutinous line, and he is gripped with the sudden urge to see what she looks like when she smiles, because he wagers it's a sight to behold. "Come on, what's the worst that could happen?"

She gives him a look that clearly says she can think of many, many things, but then her mouth twitches, her jaw losing its rigid set. Not a smile, but not an eye-roll_. Definitely progress._ "Fine, but don't think I'm taking my eyes off you for a second."

He grins at her, knowing he'd be lying if he wasn't tempted to take that as a challenge. "I would despair if you did."

* * *

Realising you've packed the wrong shoes to go with your skirt and you'll have to rethink your whole outfit is bad enough. Being holed up in a hotel bathroom while you get changed into said outfit because you're suddenly sharing your room with a strange British man is much worse.

He'd insisted she take the bathroom to change before heading downstairs to register for the three-day event, which she grudgingly appreciated, because that meant she didn't have to worry about the door suddenly opening while she was standing in the middle of the hotel room with her dress halfway over her head. When she finally emerges, every black fold of the simple dress smoothed into place, his eyes light up in a way that shouldn't make her feel as though she's just gotten the thumbs up from her date, but it does. "You look lovely."

_There's that accent again_, she thinks with faint despair. She strides across the room to grab her purse and phone from her bedside table, annoyed that she hadn't thought to take them into the bathroom with her. Rookie mistake, and it's been a long time since she could be called a rookie. Apart from the whole security issue, she'd completely missed her chance to Google his name in the privacy of the bathroom. "Well, you don't really know how I look at any other time so you can't really judge, but thank you."

"Do you always do that?"

She finally looks at him properly, unable to stop herself doing a head-to-toe glance of her own. The words 'irritatingly attractive' come to mind, and she can't help thinking it would be so much easier to have been stuck with someone who didn't tick so many boxes on her personal wish list. He's changed out of his jeans and long-sleeved t-shirt into a grey business shirt, black waistcoat, black pants and no tie, his sleeves rolled up just enough to reveal a light dusting of dark hair covering leanly muscled forearms. Good hands, too, she thinks before she can catch herself. _Shit. _"Do what?"

He smiles at her, and again she's struck by the vivid blue of his eyes. "Turn a compliment into a joke."

She drops her phone into her purse and gives him the most sarcastic smile in her repertoire. "I didn't realise the Boston office was churning out behavioural experts."

"What can I say, love? You're something of an open book."

She opens her mouth to retort, then realises she has no idea how to answer that without giving him even more information. It's easier to be predictable. "Don't call me love."

He fills the awkward silence in the elevator ride down to the convention room on the first floor with easy-going chatter, telling her that he specialises in Maritime and Aviation Law, which is a surprise, because after spending the last hour in his company, she would have guessed 'Charming Handsome Smug Bastard 101'. To her reluctant amusement, though, he's not fazed in the slightest by her one word answers and lack of real engagement. Not once does his cheery manner desert him, and she has to admit that it makes the tedious process of signing in and getting their itinerary a little less tedious.

Not that she wants to encourage him, of course. When she decided to attend this legal marketing (_sorry, Business Development and don't forget the capital B and capital D_, she thinks wearily) weekend, the last thing she was looking for was an unexpected complication of the male kind. She's had more than enough of those to last her several lifetimes.

Once they've finished registering (she finds out that the K stands for Killian), he rubs his hands together. "Right. Shall we get a drink before the dreary dinner at eight?"

She stares at him, trying to remember the last time she saw someone actually rub their hands together, then belatedly realises he's waiting for an answer. "What? Oh, thanks but I can't." She tries not to care that his face falls at her knockback, because she doesn't owe him anything. "I've already arranged to meet some people from my office before dinner."

He looks at his watch, then at her. "And what time would that be, love?"

She may be a wizard at unravelling fraudulent corporate insurance claims, but she's never been much good at lying herself, especially on the fly. "Uh, seven."

He grins at her. "Will you look at that? It's six now." He puts both hands behind his back, and looks at her like he's a freaking schoolkid on a trip to the county fair. He's actually bouncing on the balls of his feet, she thinks, and can't help smiling. His gaze immediately drops to her mouth, and his eyes brighten. "What do you say, Swan? Shall we have a drink?"

She's not quite sure how it happens, but five minutes later they're at the hotel bar and there's a vodkatini in front of her and he's sipping a beer. After a tense moment while ordering (_should I charge it to our room, love?_) she relaxes enough to finally start flinging some banter back at him. She may not know him from Adam, but again she has to admit, he_ is_entertaining company.

"And what do you specialise in, Swan?"

"Fraud, and I keep telling you, it's Emma."

"You must come up against some dastardly types in your area of work."

She raises her glass to him in a mock toast. "Not just at work, believe me."

For the next hour, they talk and they drink, the latter definitely in moderation because she is determined to keep her wits about her. He tells her the gossip about the partners in his office, and she returns the favour. He flirts, which seems to come as naturally as breathing to him, and she does her best to keep up without leading him on, but it's getting harder and harder, because he's gorgeous and funny and intelligent and he's looking at her as though she's the only person on this planet that could possibly interest him, and it's been a long time since anyone looked at her like that. It's only when she hears a familiar voice that she realises she's forgotten this was only supposed to be a quick drink.

"There you are!" She looks up to find Ruby advancing on them, Victor in tow as usual. "What time do you call this?"

Startled, Emma looks at her watch to see it's after 7:30pm. "Crap. Ruby, I'm so sorry."

Her friend waves away her apology. "Not a problem. Just glad you're not lying dead in a ditch somewhere and, _hel-lo,_ who is this_?_"

"Killian Jones." Her drinking companion speaks up before Emma has the chance to introduce him. "I'm Emma's roommate for the weekend."

Ruby and Victor's heads swivel in unison towards Emma. Victor, in particular, seems gleeful at this revelation. "Oh, my. Do tell."

Emma can feel the dull flush of colour travelling up her neck and all over her face. "There's nothing to tell," she informs them, flashing an irritated glance at said roommate. "Administrative error." Noticing the appreciative glance he's darting at Ruby's legs, she gives him a saccharine sweet smile. "Apparently _Killian_sounds a little too much like a girl's name, so you can understand their mistake."

"Oi." He tilts back his head, and she can't help noticing that he's even attractive when his nostrils are flaring in indignation. "I'll have you know it's an honoured family name, stretching back centuries."

Emma opens her mouth to retort, then thinks better of it. Instead, she introduces Ruby (rising star in their Family Law division) and Victor (self-proclaimed guru of their medical malpractice team) to him, not bothering to explain that her friends are also roommates of sorts this weekend, not when Victor's hand is on Ruby's ass and his mouth still bares the faintest trace of her signature red lipstick.

"We're just heading into dinner," Ruby says, her hand lightly squeezing Emma's shoulder in a familiar _we will talk about this later _gesture. "Would you like to join us?"

Killian smiles at Ruby. "I'd love to, but I'm afraid I have to do penance with my own people this evening. Boss' orders." He turns to Emma, toasting her with his empty beer glass. "Thanks for indulging me with your company, love. I guess I'll see you later?"

She refuses to feel disappointed that he won't be joining them for dinner. "I'm sure you will, seeing we're sharing a room."

"See?" He leans close, close enough for her to smell the warm spice of his aftershave, and she doesn't think to move away. "That sounds so much more fun than _administrative error, _don't you think?" He winks at her, then slides off his bar stool and saunters out, leaving her staring after him

"_Well._" Victor's dark eyes are dancing with the promise of salacious information. "I think someone's got some explaining to do."

To the sound of Ruby snickering, Emma tosses back the last inch of her drink, hoping the burn of the alcohol will distract her from the ridiculous racing of her pulse. "Shut up, Whale."


	2. Chapter 2

Thank you SO much for all the feedback and follows - I appreciate them all more than I can say. I'm very happy people are enjoying this story, because I am having a BLAST writing it. At this stage I'm looking about four chapters all up, but don't quote me on that! Cheers!

* * *

The function room where the 'meet and greet' dinner is being held is vast, quite large enough for him to have no luck spotting Emma Swan and her friends once he's seated. _Bugger these event organisers and their determination for everyone to mingle across the board at this blasted thing_. He vaguely remembers hearing that there are almost five hundred attendees over the course of the weekend, which makes it a little awkward when he's only interested in talking to one of those people.

Resigning himself to his fate, Killian reconnects with his five colleagues from the Boston office, deflecting their questions about where he's been all afternoon with a smile. "Surely you lot don't think I want to spend more time with you than necessary, do you?"

The petite blonde woman on his right shakes her head. "God forbid you'd actually stick to what we'd all planned only this morning, Killian."

He smiles at her. Tink (poor lass, her parents were hippies _and _Peter Pan fans, bloody dreadful name for anyone, let alone a lawyer) has been oddly enthused about this weekend, although he's a loss to fathom why. It's not as though they'll be learning anything that will relate to the day-to-day grind of frantically billing hours to make their budgets once Monday rolls around. "Had a spot of trouble with my accommodation." She rolls her eyes at him, but thankfully lets it go, to his relief. The last thing he feels like at this moment is an interrogation on why he didn't join them for pre-dinner drinks.

The next two hours are excruciatingly dull. The only saving grace is that he's now got time to grab his phone and visit the website of the Chicago office and study the corporate profile of one Ms Emma Swan. The headshot they have of her – all that blonde hair determined pulled back into a bun, sober charcoal suit designed to make her blend in – makes him smile. Not even dressing exactly the same as every other female lawyer in Chicago can make her blend in, he thinks. He ignores Tink's occasional pointed 'put that thing away' glares at his phone for as long as he can, but eventually he has to cede to good manners and join in the conversation around the table.

Once they're free to network (God, how he hate that word), he excuses himself and sets about tracking down his missing roommate, hoping he doesn't look as obvious as he feels as he searches the function room for that familiar blonde head. After a few minutes, he finally catches sight of her friends, but Emma is nowhere to be seen. _Bugger. _He turns to walk towards the main doors to the function room - perhaps she's gone to get some fresh air – only to almost collide with his quarry, apparently making her way back to her table from the restroom.

She doesn't look unhappy to see him. On the other hand, she doesn't look overly happy either. "Oh, hey."

He's enjoyed more enthusiastic greetings from women, but he'll take it. "Hi."

She glances at the wine glass in his hand. "Having fun?"

"Definitely." He tilts his head towards the podium at the front of the room. "I always enjoy listening to pompous arses enthuse about succession planning and corporate branding while I do battle with an overcooked steak."

"I know, right?" She smiles at him, a real smile this time, and he feels like someone's just punched in the gut, but in a very good way. "Um, look, I'm going to call it a night, so I'll see you in the morning."

It's a polite dismissal, but a dismissal nevertheless, and the disappointment that washes over him is an uncomfortable reminder of just how much she's gotten under his skin already. They're sharing a room, for fuck's sake, but the thought of her vanishing on him again so soon has him stepping a little closer. "Perhaps we could -"

There's a heavy clap on his shoulder. "Jones, there you are."

_Bloody hell. _He switches on his most sycophantic smile as he turns to the owner of the voice and the hand. Only the best for the CEO of the firm, after all. "Good evening, Douglas."

"I need you to come and talk some sense into someone."

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Emma shift from one foot to the other. "A bit of free legal advice on a Friday night?"

His boss smiles. "That's what he thinks, but you and I know it always comes with a price."

"Of course." He flashes Emma smile of apology, although he's not quite sure what he's apologising for. "You'll have to excuse me."

She raises her eyebrows at him, as if to remind him that she's the one who's actually leaving. "Have fun."

He waits until Douglas starts to move away, then leans in close, close enough to smell the light scent of her perfume, dropping his voice so that only she can hear. "I'd much rather be buying you another drink, love. Nevertheless, I promise not to storm in on hobnailed boots after midnight and wake you from your beauty sleep." She hesitates long enough to let him admire the faint pink flush that touch her cheeks, then she turns without a word and walks away. He watches her go, unable to tear his eyes away from the amazing things that those black stiletto heels do for her legs.

It _is_ after midnight by the time he manages to escape, and he's never opened a hotel room door more carefully in his life. She's left the bathroom light on, obviously so he doesn't crack his skull on something in the darkness, and the thought makes him smile.

He creeps about the room in the semi-darkness, the reality of the situation beginning to sink in. If he was alone, he'd simply toss his clothes onto the nearest flat surface and fall into bed, but thankfully, he'd thought to throw in a few t-shirts and a pair of ancient sweatpants when he was packing. Definitely no sleeping naked this weekend, he thinks, but then his mind slides down the slippery slope of wondering what Emma Swan wears to bed and God, she's sleeping right there, with her long legs and gorgeous breasts and amazing arse and why the fuck did he think he was actually going to enjoy this particular situation?

He escapes into the bathroom to clean his teeth and change into his makeshift pyjamas, but it's not an escape because the bathroom smells like her perfume and he knows he's not going to get any sleep tonight unless he takes matters into his own hands, so to speak. Two minutes later, he's choking back a groan as he stands underneath the hot shower spray, his cock in one hand, his other arm braced on the tiles, his head filled with painfully creative images of everything he'd like to do with a naked Emma Swan, perhaps even while she's still wearing those black stilettos.

He comes harder than he has in a long time.

When he finally slips into his own bed, he can hear her breathing across the room and smell her perfume once more, and his cock twitches back into life.

_Bloody hell._

He punches his pillow hard before rolling over, putting his back to her. Somehow, he manages to fall asleep and, when he wakes the next morning, it's to the sound of a running shower. Rubbing his hand over his eyes, he sits up groggily, trying to get his bearings. When he spies the rumpled but empty bed on the other side of the room, it all comes flooding back.

And now he's right back in the same situation as he was a few hours ago, doing his best to ignore the fact that he's still in possession of an extremely vivid imagination, now with the added bonus of the certainty that last night's quick wank did nothing to get her out of his system. He should go for a walk, go to grab a newspaper or a coffee, anything but sit on his bed wearing his pyjamas knowing Emma Swan is wet and naked on the other side of the bathroom door. Forget the steam in the bloody bathroom, the heat coursing through his blood is enough to power the entire state of Florida.

Then the water stops running and he gets to his feet, knowing he's only got a few minutes to decide exactly how he's going to approach this situation. He briefly considers leaving the room to give the lass (and himself) some space, but he thinks of how flustered she'd become every time he'd gotten close to her yesterday, and how she'd blushed last night when he'd teased about waking her up. Perhaps she's not as immune to his charms as her poker face might claim.

He stays.

"Morning, Swan."

She stops in her tracks, clearly not expecting to find him rummaging through his suitcase in search of a clean shirt. Her gaze drops to his bare feet, travels up his legs, then quickly darts away. "Uh, hi."

He makes no pretence of not admiring the picture she makes in her jeans and long-sleeved white sweater, her long hair pulled back into a complicated braid. "I hope I didn't wake you last night."

She's very carefully not looking at him now. "No, all good." He watches as she rummages through her purse, then frowns at the top of her bedside table.

"Something wrong?"

Sighing, she holds up the laminated pass they'd all received last night. "I've lost my lanyard."

He shakes his sleep-deprived brain into action, because he actually has the answer to her problem. "That woman gave me two of those things when I registered, hold on." He picks up the black trousers he'd been wearing the day before and rummages through the pockets. "No idea why she gave me two."

"Please." She's still not looking at him, but her scoffing tone is more than clear. "She couldn't take her eyes off you."

"I can't say I noticed." He grins at her as he holds out the spare lanyard. "I had more interesting things to distract me at the time."

Again, that faint hint of colour touches her cheeks, something her studied eye-roll does nothing to disguise. "Thanks." She goes to pluck the lanyard from his hand, her eyes widening as she catches sight of his right wrist. "That's some tattoo."

_Damn it._ It's not something he shares with many people, but it's too late to cover it up now, of course. "The folly of youth."

She tilts her head, obviously trying to read the script. "Who's Milah?"

The sound of the name doesn't make him wince anymore, but that doesn't mean he wants to talk about it. Taking her wrist in his hand, he presses the lanyard into her palm, feeling her start when he touches her. "Someone from long ago."

"I'm sorry." She's looking at him properly now, her expression faintly embarrassed. "I shouldn't have asked. It's none of my business."

"We lived together for three years." Dropping her wrist, he hears himself tell her what he makes a point of never discussing with anyone, the words seeming to tumble from his lips without conscious thought. "Two years after we separated, she died in a car accident."

Her pale throat works as she swallows hard. "I'm really sorry."

"Like I said, love." He steps back, feeling very much as though this conversation has been turned on its head, making him feel slightly dizzy with it. "It was a long time ago."

She stares at him, dark eyelashes fluttering, and he can see the hesitation in her bright green eyes. Finally, she nods, and takes a step back herself. "I have to go. I promised to meet Ruby for breakfast downstairs. See you later?"

With that, she flees. There's no other word for it, and he stares after her as she slams the door behind her. She's running away, he realises, not because she's embarrassed to have asked such a personal question but because she feels it too, this odd connection between them.

Despite the lingering echo of sorrow that the thought of Milah always brings, Killian finds himself smiling. Cracking Emma Swan's hard outer shell might well prove to be one of the biggest challenges he's ever faced, but like he so often reminds his clients, he likes a challenge.

* * *

Ruby gives her a knowing look when she arrives at the breakfast buffet. "You look nice."

Emma drops her purse onto the table with a clunk. "Thanks."

Ruby looks her up and down, and Emma knows she's taking in the hair, the makeup, the cleavage visibly enhanced by the 'good' bra beneath the most flattering sweater in her collection. "Extra nice, if you know what I mean."

_Damn Ruby and her all-seeing eyes._ "Pretty sure I don't."

Elbows on the table, Ruby rests her chin in her palms, her dark eyes gleaming with mischief. "Where's your friend?"

A memory of leanly muscled arms and a threadbare pair of sweatpants clinging to great thighs and an amazing ass flashes into Emma's thoughts. _Shit. _"He's not my friend, and he's still in the shower, I guess."

Ruby's red lips curve in a salacious smile. "Then what are you doing down here, girl?"

"Having breakfast with my _actual _friend." Emma reaches for her water glass, then belatedly registers that someone is missing. "Where's Victor?"

"Hungover." Ruby seems amused rather than sympathetic, which is fairly indicative of their relationship. "He got into the single malts last night with those barristers from New York."

Emma's laugh comes like a snort, but it's just her and Ruby, and she doesn't have to be on her best behaviour now. And just the thought that she's felt like she's had to be on her best behaviour whenever _he's _around makes her feel weirdly uneasy, like they're on some surreal kind of first date.

When she comes back from her trip to the breakfast bar, Ruby is scrolling through something on her phone. When Emma slides into her seat, Ruby presents her with the Boston office's website and _oh, _there is Killian Jones' corporate profile. "He's thirty-two," Ruby announces, as though Emma asked her a question. "And he's not married as far as I can tell."

Emma looks down at her plate, remember the conversation in her hotel room, a sudden lump in her throat, then gives herself a mental shake, because she's not the sentimental type at any time of the day, let alone before breakfast. "No, I don't think he is."

Ruby keeps reading as they eat, passing on tidbits of information in between bites (words like Oxford and emigrated pop up more than once) until Emma gives her an exasperated look. "Okay, I get it. You think he's a catch. Can I finish my breakfast in peace now?"

Her friend's smile is a sly one. "Sure. I mean, it's not as though you care how old he is or how successful he is or if he's married." She slides her phone across the table, and Killian's face stares out from the screen, his bright blue eyes looking for all the world as though they've been photoshopped.

In answer, Emma buries her nose in her coffee cup. The only saving grace about this conversation is that the bacon is great and Victor is still sleeping off a hangover, because she's not in the mood for their tag-team nagging this morning.

To her surprise, she doesn't see Killian at breakfast at all - _not _that she's watching for him – and it's only when they break for lunch a few hours later that she catches sight of him in the distance. She watches as he vanishes into one of the media rooms at the far end of the convention floor, then hears a throat being cleared beside her. Turning her head, she finds Ruby watching her.

"What?"

Her friend is practically levitating with smug satisfaction. "I knew it. You_ like_ him."

"Hardly." Emma pulls out her registration timetable, annoyed with herself and Ruby and yes, the strange man who is sleeping in her room. "God. We've got something called 'Best Practices and Sharpest Insights' after lunch. Sounds riveting."

"Might do you good to have a little fun."

"If by _fun_ you mean let someone trample over all my heart and then turn out to be married or gay or on the run from the law, I'll pass."

"I told you, he's not married." Ruby heaves an overdone, long-suffering sigh. "Besides, they're not all like that and you know it. The law of averages alone proves that's not possible."

"I can't believe you're still so starry-eyed about love after working in Family Law for five years."

Her friend laughs, white teeth flashing. "The clients are fine. If anything's going to make me stop believing in fairy tale endings, it'll be Victor."

After another two hours of think tanks and a discussion panel exploring something called emotional intelligence, Emma is itching for caffeine. She hadn't slept well last night, not that she'd admit it to Ruby, all too aware of the other occupant of the room. She hasn't shared a bedroom with anyone for years, and definitely not with someone who makes her feel like popping a breath mint and checking her reflection in the closest shiny surface.

With Ruby in tow, she sets out in search of a decent coffee (ie, not hotel coffee) during their short afternoon break, only to see Killian striding across the foyer towards them, takeaway coffee cup in hand.

"Afternoon, ladies."

He's ditched most of the formal wear of the night before, now wearing his waistcoat over a dark blue t-shirt and jeans. His patent shoes have been exchanged for sneakers, and he looks nothing like the cutting edge legal genius his corporate profile proclaimed him to be. _He looks like a freaking male model, is what he looks like,_ Emma thinks in despair, but before she can do or say anything in reply, Ruby is pulling her forward and snagging Killian's arm with the other hand. "Hey. We're ditching the stiffs once we're done for the day and going out to dinner. Then we're going clubbing, and you're more than welcome to join us."

Emma hopes her jaw hasn't dropped, because this is news to her, and she's tempted to step on Ruby's foot or give her a good, hard pinch, but really, what would be the point?

Rather than answering Ruby, he turns to _her _instead. "That alright with you, Swan? I don't want you to feel as though you've got your own personal stalker."

She shrugs, determined not to give either of them the satisfaction of a reaction. "Sure."

Her non-committal reply seems to amuse him, which annoys her all over again. "Well, then. Count me in."

Ruby suddenly waves her hand in the air between them as she digs her ringing phone out of her purse. "Sorry, it's Victor. Carry on."

She steps away from them, and Emma looks at the coffee in Killian's hand, relieved to have a non-awkward topic of conversation to grab onto. "Where did you get that?"

He gestures behind him with a lazy tilt of his head. "There was a cart in the foyer."

"Thank God."

"_Was _being the operative word, I'm afraid," he tells her as she makes to walk around him. "They've just packed up."

_Story of her weekend so far, really_. "Crap."

Without missing a beat, he holds out his takeaway cup. "Have this one."

She stares at the coffee, then at him. "I couldn't."

"I only bought it to kill some time," he admits with a sheepish smile that does the oddest things to her pulse. "Cream and sugar okay?"

She takes the coffee without further protest, not only because she really wants it, but also because the gesture has left her more than a little dumbstruck. "Um, thank you."

"My pleasure, love," he says with a grin, his accent lilting over the word _pleasure_. "See you upstairs later, then?"

"Okay." Cradling the takeaway coffee between her hands, Emma watches as he walks away, feeling an odd sense of déjà vu, because didn't they go through this routine last night at the bar?

"Well," Ruby murmurs in her ear, her call with Victor apparently finished. "This could be a _very _interesting evening."

Emma can't even bring herself to deny it, not when her heart is racing a mile a minute, and that's before she's had a single sip of caffeine. "What was that you were saying about the law of averages?"

Ruby grins. "That's my girl."


	3. Chapter 3

Dinner is at a 'non-touristy' (whatever the devil _that_ means in a convention town) Japanese place a short distance from the hotel. They catch a taxi there, and by the less than subtle machinations of her female friend, he finds himself sitting next to Emma in the back seat. He must remember to buy Ruby a 'thank you' drink later, he thinks, because Emma is wearing another black dress, but this one is much shorter and made of some manner of slippery fabric that keeps riding up on her lovely thighs each time the taxi swerves or turns. She also smells quite amazing, a blend of flowers and spice and warm female skin that fills him with the urge to bury his face in the crook of her neck and inhale deeply.

"What are your friends doing tonight?"

He has to make an effort not to look at her lips, painted scarlet for the occasion. "Having dinner at Hard Rock, I believe." She makes a face that is just judgmental enough, and he laughs. "I know, but they were quite keen."

To his amusement, the silent matchmaking continues once they reach their destination. When shown to their table for four, Ruby quickly arranges herself and Victor on one side of it, giving Emma no choice but to sit beside him. He hides a smile at the look she darts in her friend's direction, because it's not irritation but embarrassment, which means that Emma Swan isn't averse to sitting close to him, she just doesn't want to be obvious about it.

The restaurant is small and welcoming and exactly the type of place he and his brother used to meet for lunch when he still lived in London. He says as much to the table at large, and Emma looks at him. "No family in Boston?"

"No. My brother and his family live in London." And he misses them dearly, but that's quite the maudlin topic and not one to dwell on when you're trying to impress a woman, he's always felt.

"You must miss them," she says softly, and he wonders if she's just perceptive or a beautiful blonde witch in disguise.

"Aye."

Her mouth twitches in a smile, and he realises he's lapsed back into the accent he does his best to smooth over when in his public persona. Any more talk of Liam and his family and he'll be crying in his cups in the corner, and that's not the impression he wants to make this evening. "Shall we have another drink?"

Reaching across the table, Victor claps him on the back. "Oh, I like this one," he tells Emma cheerfully, then he's flagged down a waitress and ordered sake for four before anyone else can speak.

"Sake? Seriously?" Emma deadpans in Victor's direction. "I guess you don't want to make it to any of the panels tomorrow either?"

Victor merely smiles. "You cannot come to a fine establishment such as this without partaking in their traditional drink." He leans forward, a delicate wink aimed at Ruby as he does so. "Why, even now they're warming our drinks in the traditional manner handed down from generation to generation."

Ruby is smiling and Emma looks determinedly unimpressed, and Killian has the feeling that this is fairly indicative of this trio's usual interaction. "A traditional sake warmer?"

Killian leans towards her, close enough to put his lips to her ear. "I believe it's called a microwave, love."

He actually sees the gooseflesh rising up on her arms, and the thought of that shiver tightening her body_ everywhere _sends a rush of heat straight to his groin. She turns to look at him, her face so close to his that it would take a whisper for his mouth to touch hers, then the waitress reappears with their sake. Emma sits back, dropping her gaze, and the moment is officially lost.

His body doesn't appear to have received the memo, however, as Emma's nearness continues to merrily spike his blood as much as the pure alcohol they're about to toss back ever could. That said, the sake packs quite a punch. The restaurant is a little too warm now and he's just thinking longingly of the cool night air outside when Emma looks at her watch, then at Ruby. "Should we go, do you think?"

The club is only two blocks away, so they decide to walk. Frankly, while he's personally certain that such high heels cannot be good for a woman's vertebra and feet, it's a joy to drop back to stroll along beside Victor while the other two go ahead, because _bloody hell,_ just watching the undulation of Emma's hips as she walks is making him feel like a schoolboy at the tender age of thirty-two.

As they reach the club (the sodding line is a mile long, of course), Victor looks at Emma and Ruby, then gives him a knowing grin. "It's a good time to be alive, don't you think?"

He can't argue with that.

* * *

"The Hard Rock diners are here," Killian tells her a few minutes after they arrive at the club (thanks to Ruby, they didn't have to wait in line at all, and Emma _so_ doesn't want to know what she said to the bouncer to get them through the door so quickly) and she looks at him carefully, trying to work out if he's pleased or disappointed that his work friends are here as well. She's all for wanting to get away from the usual crowd, but she knows from personal experience that some men like to separate a potential target from his friends so that he can be something or someone other than who he really is. "I did say they were welcome to join us after dinner if they wished," he half-shouts in her ear as they draw closer to the dance floor, "but I wasn't sure if this was quite their thing."

She grins at him, inexplicably relieved. If he doesn't care if she meets or talks to his work colleagues, that means he doesn't care what tidbits about him she might pick up. That's the MO of someone with nothing to hide, she thinks, and her habitual tight knot of anxiety between her shoulders immediately relaxes. There's no way she'll be relaxing completely, because she's far too aware of him. Far too conscious that her heartbeat stutters every time her eyes meet his, far too mindful of the fact that he once again looks like he's just stepped out of the pages of GQ, the two-day stubble on his chiselled jaw included, so no, she won't be relaxing completely.

They find a table close to the dance floor, and when Ruby and Victor immediately settle in for some serious eye-fucking over their drinks, Emma rolls her eyes and turns to the man standing beside her. "Save me, would you?"

He takes her hand in his and lifts it to his lips. She feels her mouth drop open as he kisses her knuckles, his mouth soft and warm. Pulling back, his gaze drops to her lips, then lifts again to lock with her eyes. "Anything for a beautiful damsel in distress."

"Woah there, Prince Charming," she shoots back at him. "We're just dancing, okay?" She flashes him a smile to take the sting out of her words, at least she thinks she does, because her face doesn't really feel as though it's under her control at the moment. His smile unwavering, he says nothing, just tugs gently on her hand. Feeling as though she's drifting through a dream, Emma lets him lead her to the dance floor, unsure if it's the bass or her pulse that's pounding the loudest in her ears.

He's a good dancer, light on his feet and actually dancing to the music, rather than trying to get handsy with her. Not that she'd mind, because somewhere between that first "who are you" at her hotel door and now,her body has decided that it wants his, and it wants it badly, and she's not quite sure what to do about that. If she just wanted to fuck him and forget him because he was hot and available, it would be easier. Right now, she doesn't know what she wants from him, only that she wants more than that, and he's certainly not giving her any clues about what _he _wants, apart from the obvious.

_Fuck it_, she thinks hazily. Thankfully, the twin As of alcohol and adrenaline quickly kick in, and she stops feeling self-conscious around him and simply dances. She loses track of how long they're out there, too busy losing herself in the pounding beat, feeling it coming up from the floor through the soles of her feet, rippling through her body until it reaches her spinning head.

A little too much spinning, it seems, because suddenly Killian catches her in his arms to stop her from bumping into the people dancing beside them. Her fingers dig into his biceps to steady herself, her breath catching in her throat at the feel of him against her, his chest solid against her breasts, thighs shifting as he moves. Tilting back her head, she looks at him in time to see his eyes darkening, a muscle twitching in his stubbled jaw. His throat works as he swallows, then he puts his mouth to her ear. "Want to sit this one out?"

She nods, desperately trying to hide the fact that her whole body is still tingling from that fleeting contact with his. She's already worked out that he has a healthy ego when it comes to the opposite sex, and it doesn't seem fair to give it such a boost. He leads her to the chill-out area, where the music is muted and the air-con is actually working. After installing her on a low couch, he vanishes in the direction of the bar, quickly coming back with two bottles of water.

When he drops down onto the couch beside her and hands her a bottle of water, she swallows hard, caught between fight and flight_, _because she can smell the scent of clean sweat and aftershave, feel the heat rolling off his body, and see the glistening skin bared by the open v-neck of his shirt. Right now, she wants nothing more than to climb onto his lap and kiss him until he's out of his mind with the need to roll her onto her back on the couch, right here, and fuck her into next week.

She clambers awkwardly to her feet, because she's not ready, she can't be ready, because it's only been two days and this is crazy, even if it _is_ just sex and what the _hell _is happening to her? "Hold that thought," she tells him as he looks up at her, obviously confused. "I'll be right back."

Ruby and Victor are standing next to their original table, both of them scanning the dance floor. "Hey, are you guys leaving?"

"We were just coming to find you," Victor tells her with that odd little bow he always does. "Some of us need our beauty sleep more than others, my lovely." He looks at her more closely, then puts his hand on her arm. "You okay?"

Emma looks at her watch, stunned to see that almost two hours have passed. How is that possible? No wonder her feet are killing her. "I'm fine."

"Really?" Ruby takes her by the shoulders and peers into her face. "Because I'm not saying you look like you're about to hyperventilate, but you totally look like you're about to hyperventilate."

"That's probably because I am." Emma lifts her hands in mute appeal, then drops them again, because there's no point lying to people who know her so well. "I don't know what the hell I'm doing with this guy."

Victor's grin widens. "Well, I switched from medicine to law a long time ago, but I think I can still remember the basics. See, when a man and woman-"

"God, Whale, shut _up._" She turns to Ruby, who is also grinning. "I'm having a serious crisis here."

Her friend's smile softens along with her tone. "Not every man's like Neal, you know."

God, she so doesn't want to talk about Neal right now. "I know."

"See, you keep saying that, but I don't think you really _do_." Taking her by the shoulders once more, Ruby turns her around. "Get back there, and I don't expect to see either of you at breakfast tomorrow, is that clear?"

"Crystal."

Emma walks back to the chill-out lounge in a semi-daze, feeling as though every slow step is taking her towards the point of no return. _It's just sex_, she tells herself. _You've done this before and you'll probably do it again._ _Just have fun and then you'll never have to see him again._

That last thought doesn't help, to be honest, and neither does the situation she finds when she returns to the chill-out lounge. Killian is standing now, having a spirited discussion with a very cute blonde and from the look on his face, he's not winning the argument. As Emma watches, her stomach turning over, the woman puts her hand on his arm. He gently shakes it off, not unkindly, but there's no mistaking the intimacy in the gesture.

There's not point pretending she hasn't seen them, because Killian has seen _her _and is waving her over. "Emma, this is Tink. She's from the Boston office as well." He makes an expansive hand gesture that manages to look more than a little embarrassed, and Emma feels the first flicker of anger burn a little brighter. "Tink, this is Emma."

_Tink? Seriously? _"Hi."

There's an awkward silence, but Emma is determined not to break it. Finally, the other woman looks at Killian. "Well, um, I'll see you at the morning session tomorrow." Her smile is an odd mixture of curiosity and resentment, and Emma suddenly knows exactly why that is. "Nice meeting you, Emma."

As soon as they're alone again, he gestures towards the couch. "Care to sit a while, Swan?"

"No, I don't think so." She blows out a sharp breath, hoping to cool her thoughts. It doesn't work. "You know, I should have known you'd turn out to be just another typical guy." Alcohol and insecurity is a crappy mixture and a big part of her knows that, but she's just so tired of dealing with this kind of shit. And to think she actually believed Ruby's peptalk about the law of averages.

He's frowning at her now, and she knows he's confused by her sudden backflip, but she doesn't care. "And here I was thinking I was one of a kind."

"That's not what I meant." She's angry, but she's more furious with herself that she's let herself get sucked by a handsome face and a pretty accent. "You've slept with her, haven't you?"

His eyes widen, shock rippling across his face. "Bloody hell. You _are_ a beautiful witch in disguise."

She frowns at the odd comment, then waves it away. "I'm work in fraud, remember." Her eyes are burning, but she tells herself it's just because she's tired. "I'm just very good at my job."

"Nothing fraudulent happening here, love." He steps closer, his eyes urgently searching hers as though trying to find the real meaning behind her words. "You're right, Tink and I have slept together, but it was years ago. We're just mates now."

"Didn't look like that to me."

He gives her a long, considering look that she's suddenly afraid will see far too much. "Jealous, Swan?"

"Not in the least," she lies with a brittle smile, and he shakes his head at her, reaching out to touch her arm, but she steps back. "Enjoy the hotel room. I'll be crashing somewhere else tonight."

"Emma, love, don't do this."

"_Don't_ call me love." She pushes her way through the crowd, barely knowing where she's going but knowing she just has to get away. She'd been one compliment away from sleeping with an almost-complete stranger and she should have known better. Fuck, when would she ever learn?

She detours when she gets closer to the exit, suddenly unable to bear the thought of the bright lights in the real world. Instead she seeks temporary refuge in one of the stalls in the club restroom, where she fights the urge to smack herself in the head because she liked him _so _much and she's _so_ sick of being wrong about people.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck." What is wrong with her? She hardly knows him, so why does she feel like crying? _Ruby_. She needs to call Ruby. Perched miserably on the closed lid of the toilet, she rummages through the purse on her lap, then swears under her breath again. Her phone must have fallen out into the couch where she'd been sitting. Besides, Ruby and Victor will be no help, even if she did have her phone. They'll have arrived back at the hotel by now, and knowing them, Emma has no doubt they'll already be too _busy_ to pick up her call anyway. There's nothing for it. She'll have to go find her phone.

Killian is still standing where she'd left him, although now he's talking to another man. Oh, and he has her phone in his hand, apparently for safe-keeping, and she should be glad, but her hopes of sneaking back to search the couch without him seeing her are now dashed.

She slowly walks towards them, relieved that his back is to her, because she's still trying to decide if she cares enough about her phone to speak to him again tonight. To make things even more awkward, he's talking to a short, portly guy with a beard who also seems to be wearing a red knitted beanie (Seriously? How did he even get past the bouncer?) and who has 'eccentric legal genius' written all over him. They're talking loudly to hear each other over the ambient music and, once Emma gets close enough to eavesdrop, the other guy's question has her stopping in her tracks. "I'm with some guy from the New York office, Joseph something. Who are you rooming with?"

"Someone from the Chicago office."

"What's he like?"

"He's a she, Smee."

"What? Not that hot blonde you've been following around all weekend?"

Killian smiles, but it's not the same grin she's gotten used to. It's like someone's dimmed the lights, she thinks, and feels a pang of guilt she's pretty sure she's not meant to feel, because _come on_, she's not his keeper. "The very same, William, the very same."

"Was she good?"

"Excuse me?"

The other guy wiggles his eyebrows in a way that Emma supposes is meant to be suggestive but just looks like he's got a bad facial twitch. "Come on, Jones, I saw her in those stripper shoes last night, you lucky bastard. You can't tell me that a tart like that wouldn't be up for a good fu-"

Emma sucks in a breath as Killian grabs the front of the other guy's shirt and pulls him close until they're nose to nose. "I suggest you think very carefully about finishing that sentence, _mate_." His tone is pleasant enough, but the other guy obviously knows Killian well enough to know that _pleasant_ isn't the right word for the intent he's radiating right now, and he bumbles out a flustered apology.

"I didn't mean-"

"Perhaps you'll be so good as to bugger off before I punch you in the gob, mate."

William Smee moves very quickly for a short fat man. Once he's gone, Killian shakes his head and slowly turns around, his eyes widening at the sight of her. "I thought you'd gone."

She gestures towards him. "I left my phone behind."

His wistful smile makes her throat tighten. "That's not all you left behind, love."

She stares at him, wondering how the hell he can reach right into the heart of the matter - and her - with a few simple words when he barely knows her. When she doesn't speak, he sighs and steps closer. "Come on, let me take you back to the hotel."

"I'm fine."

He holds up his hands in mock surrender. "Humour me."

She feels restless and off-center, and maybe like she wants to stay here and fight with him a little more. "I don't need an escort."

He purses his lips, amusement dances in his bright eyes. "You're a stubborn one, aren't you? Never mind, I like that in a woman."

"Whatever." She takes her phone from his raised hand and jams in into her purse with unsteady fingers. "See you around."

He's hot on her heels as they reach the exit of the chill-out zone, then she feels his hand on her elbow. "Wait."

"What?"

"I'm sorry if I upset you in some way." His eyes look very blue in the dim light, and right now they're burning into hers with an intensity that makes her breath come short. "That was never my intention."

She closes her eyes. She can say nothing and storm back to the hotel and be alone and lonely and wonder what might have been if she'd only been brave enough, or she can be honest. Taking a deep breath, she opens her eyes and picks door number two. Finally. "Look, I haven't had the best track record when it comes to men, okay?"

"Then those men were all complete fools who didn't deserve you, obviously." He lifts his hand to her face, his thumb lightly dancing across her cheek. "You probably don't want to hear this right now, lass, but you're one of the most beautiful women I've ever met."

She wants very much to lean into his touch, but she's not ready to believe she was actually right about him. "Pretty sure that's just the sake talking."

"It's not, but even if it were, that wouldn't change the fact that you're beautiful."

She opens her mouth to brush the compliment off, then thinks of what he'd said to her last night. Taking a deep breath, she gives him a tentative smile. "Thank you."

His gaze locks with hers, stretching out across the space of a heartbeat, and the spark that's been simmering since she opened the door to him last night suddenly catches and flares. She sees the heat flash in his eyes at the same time it floods her body, and before she knows it he's closed the distance between them, her arms winding around his neck even as he's pressing her back against the wall behind her.

He's right. He might have been drinking, but he's definitely not drunk, because a drunk man wouldn't have the motor skills to kiss her like he's kissing her, because holy fuck, she feels as though she needs to check that her clothes haven't caught fire. His kiss is hard and fierce and exactly what she wants, his tongue twisting with hers almost angrily, and she kisses him back just as furiously, her fingers digging into his hips to pull him closer, one leg sliding higher against his thigh in silent invitation. Groaning into her kiss, he grips her thigh, his fingertips delving teasingly beneath the hem of her dress. He grinds his hips into hers and she feels him, hard and thick and rubbing exactly where she wants him and _fuck, _she wants him, wants him inside her so badly that it hurts. Turning her head, she kisses his neck, letting him feel the scrape of her teeth as she tastes the salt of his skin, feeling the vibration of his groan on her tongue.

"Bloody hell, Emma." He's breathing heavily as he lifts his head, his body still plastered against hers from neck to knee. His erection is pressed between her thighs, thick and hard and obviously hers for the taking should she wish, the slow rocking of his hips making her bite into her bottom lip with each subtle thrust. "Don't kiss a man like that unless you mean it."

She rubs the spike of her heel against his calf, watching with dazed satisfaction as his pupils dilate. "Are you going to take me back to the hotel or not?"

His mouth curves in a slow, heated smile, the look in his eyes making her toes curl in her stilettos. "Oh, I'll take you alright, love." The hand on her thigh slides a little higher, his eyes darkening even more as she inhales sharply. "But first I think we'd better get back to our room, don't you?"


	4. Chapter 4

Finally back at the hotel, she keeps hold of his hand as they cross the foyer, but she seems determined not to indulge in small talk. "Your room or mine, love?" he murmurs in her ear as they wait for the lift, and in answer she simply leans back against him, twitching her arse against his zipper in such a way that he's gritting his teeth as the lift doors open. Several other hotel guests join them on the journey upward, which again is probably just as well, as he's quite sure the security cameras are everywhere in this establishment.

She tosses her purse and phone onto the small desk just inside the door of their hotel room, then turns to him without speaking, which makes it precisely fifteen minutes since she last said anything to him.

"Cat got your tongue, Swan?"

She gives him a predatory smile that makes him suck in a sharp breath, then his back is against the wall and she is twisting her fingers into his shirt front. A soft hum sings in the back of her throat as he opens his mouth to her kiss, curling her tongue around his with an accuracy that sends every drop of his blood southward in a matter of seconds.

Sliding one hand through her silken hair, he cradles her head as their kiss goes on and on and on and _oh, God,_ he's already as hard as a fucking rock and she's barely touched him. She tastes of alcohol and lipstick and heat and desire, and he dazedly tells himself that maybe they should slow down but instead his hands are now on her delectable arse, gliding over the silk of her dress. He grins against her mouth as he lifts his head, then rests his forehead against hers as he traces the unmistakable demarcation line between G-string underwear and skin beneath the thin material of her dress. "Now these, Ms Swan," he mutters, wondering if she normally wears such undergarments to go clubbing or if he dares hope it's him who's warranted such a special effort this evening. "These could definitely be seen as undue influence."

She hooks one long leg around his, arching her back until the soft swell of her breasts are pushing against his chest. Lifting her hand, she skims one fingertip down and up the 'v' of his unbuttoned shirt collar, the light touch seeming to burn his skin, and finally decides to talk. "There are almost five hundred people at this damned thing." She's tracing the hollow of his throat with her fingertip now, and it's one of the most singularly erotic things he's ever experienced. "A girl's gotta stand out somehow."

He knows she's joking but he still swallows hard, closing his eyes as she presses her hips firmly against his, the soft heat between her legs fitting perfectly against his aching groin. "Trust me, love, you've had my undivided attention from the moment you opened that door."

Her voice trembles with nervous laughter and he can't remember the last time he wanted someone so much. "Shut up, Jones." Lifting her face to his, she kisses him again, soft and deep and hot, and he knows they're not going to take things slowly.

They make to the closest bed (his) and he finds himself siting on the edge of it, his hands caressing the backs of her thighs as she stands between his knees. The cool silk of her dress quickly becomes the warm silk of her skin, and her nimble fingers deal with his shirt and vest buttons with breathtaking speed, her hands finally sliding beneath his shirt to explore his bare chest and stomach with an eagerness that has him suppressing a choked groan of pleasure.

Later, he doesn't remember who pulls the straps of her dress downward - he only remembers two pairs of hands doing many things at once - but her breasts are soon bare in his hands, her arms hooked around his neck as she whispers his name, her head falling forward, her hair a silken curtain around his face. The soft weight of her breasts in his cupped hands feel like something from a dream, the tight bud of her nipples rising beneath the brush of his thumbs a sensation straight out of his dirtiest fantasies. His hands go to her hips, pulling her closer, and he feels the scrape of her stiletto heel - God, she's still wearing those shoes - against his knee as she climbs into his lap. His body registers the feel of her naked breasts against his chest, then she moves against him and all he knows is that the soft heat between her thighs is pressed against his zipper and he's so hard now that he either has to excuse himself or –

"Emma." Her name comes out as a strangled whisper as he cups her face in his hands, trying to see through the red haze of lust that's almost blinding him. "Last chance to let me be a gentleman." In answer, her hands drop to his belt, and it's all he can do not to arch into her touch.

"Since when are you a gentleman?" she asks, and he feels his shaky smile stretch from ear to ear. "I'm _always _a gentleman."

She rolls her eyes, then they're both tugging off his vest and his shirt, a task made pleasantly awkward by the fact that he can't stop kissing her, tasting the dark sweetness of her mouth again and again. Her simple dress is dispatched more easily, followed by that tiny scrap of material masquerading as underwear, then she's naked in his arms and he thinks he might make enquiries into packing a defibrillator in his suitcase next time, because the sight of her is more than enough to make his heart stop in its tracks. When she slides down his zipper with agonizing precision and hooks her fingers into the waistband of his boxers, their eyes meet and hold. "Still going to be crashing somewhere else tonight?"

She shakes her head, her hand resting at the top of his thigh, teasingly close to where he'd give his next paycheck to feel her touch. "I guess not." Then she finally touches him, cupping him through his boxers, and he almost lifts them both off the fucking bed. He hears himself say something about condoms in the drawer beside his bed (force of habit when he'd unpacked yesterday, but he never dreamed he'd be using them for _her)_, then his trousers and boxers are past his knees and the slick heat of her body is rubbing against him and her breasts are soft and sweet beneath his mouth.

Every inch of his skin is hotter than a furnace, tight and tingling, and it's getting tougher to count to ten when he can barely remember his own name. Finally, when he is on the brink between control and teenaged embarrassment, she wraps her arms around his neck, her knees pressing deep into the mattress on either side of his hips as she rocks against him. "I need -" she mutters, and he has no idea if it's a request or a demand and he doesn't care, because he's pushing himself inside her in a long, slow slide of heat and flesh and she's arching to meet him and the feel of her around him makes him want to shout her name until his voice is gone.

She breathes a shuddering sigh, settling herself against him, and he closes his eyes, his hands gliding over the firm swell of her arse, feeling the roar of his pulse in his head and his chest and his cock, the beat of his heart fluttering deep inside the tight clasp of her body. They begin to move together, a dance of skin and hands and mouths, a sensory overload of taste and sound, any lingering awkwardness melting in the heat of a hunger that has been building from the first moment they'd met. He slides his hand between them, finding the sleek flesh that parts and swells beneath his touch, making her bury her face against his shoulder, her mouth open on a gasp of pleasure against his damp skin.

A few moments later, she's shaking against him, lightening quick ripples of release shivering through her, her body calling for him to follow in a summons he has no intention of refusing. She kisses him when he comes, shuddering and arching beneath her, letting him taste her smile as he loses himself, her hands soft on his face. For a long moment, there is nothing but the sound of their breathing and the heady scent of sex, then he tangles one hand in the bright tumble of her hair, not bothering to hide his grin. "That was bloody amazing."

"Beginner's luck." Her words are slurred with satisfaction, and his grin widens. "Are you implying that I'm a beginner at this sort of activity? Because I assure you, I've been known to be quite the lad about town in my dark past," he shoots back in a voice that sounds smug even to his own ears, and is rewarded with a breathy chuckle in his ear.

"So you're saying you do this kind of this often?"

There's no good to be gained from lying to her. "Sometimes." He runs his hands up and down the length of her spine, enjoying the way her body arches beneath his touch. "But not always."

She leans back to study him, her hands resting lightly on his shoulders, her kiss-swollen lips curved in a soft smile. Something about his answer has pleased her, although he's not exactly sure which part. "Good to know."

Hastily kicking away his boxers and jeans (he laughs to himself when he realises Emma wasn't the only one who'd kept her shoes on), he pulls her into his arms as they finally sink down onto the bed. Propping himself up on one elbow, he sets out to explore at his leisure, his lips and hand finding each inch of pale, smooth skin, his body stirring back to life with each kiss and touch. The first time had only been the beginning, and he thinks she knows it as well as he does.

His throat tight with everything he wants to say to her (but it's all ridiculous, too much, too soon) he rolls her onto her back and catches her wrists in his hands, bringing them to his mouth one at a time. Holding her gaze with his, he presses a kiss to her fluttering pulse, one wrist at a time, inhaling the scent of her flushed skin. "What was that you were saying about beginner's luck?"

"Hmmm." She moves beneath him, a delicate circling of her hips, and he feels the faint aftershock of pleasure. Giving him a tremulous smile, she wraps her long legs around his hips, drawing him closer. "Every good theory deserves testing." She reaches down, obviously meaning to finally slide off her stilettos, and he grabs her hand, lifting it to his mouth instead.

"Wait." Holding her gaze with his, he bites the fleshy swell beneath her thumb, her eyelids fluttering as he kisses her palm. "Leave them on?"

She does.

* * *

Afterwards, with the lights turned off and both of them too exhausted to move from his bed (her shoes are finally tossed on the floor and, God, she'll never be able to wear them again without blushing), they talk. Her chin resting on his chest, she scratches her fingernails lightly across his stomach, lazy circles that _might_ just be getting lower and lower with each passing arc. "How often do you see your family in London?"

"Not as often as I'd like." In the darkness, his accent seems thicker, or perhaps it's just because he's tired. His hand tangles in her hair, gently massaging her scalp in a slow rhythm that is almost lulling her to sleep. "Christmas and New Year's, of course, and sometimes I manage two weeks during summer." He shifts against her, his legs tangling with hers. "How about you? Your family?"

Emma lets out a soft sigh. Of course, the price of her curiosity satisfied would be having to answer _his _questions. "My family is, uh, complicated."

His hand slips down to stroke her bare back. "I'm all ears, love."

She's suddenly very glad of the darkness. "Well, I was adopted." She feels his body tense against hers (just like everyone else, he's probably afraid he's opened a can of worms) and goes on quickly. "Three years ago, after my adoptive parents had both passed away, I found my birth parents, which was interesting."

"How?"

"For starters, they're only sixteen years older than me."

"What are they like?"

Emma hesitates. How does she explain Mary Margaret and David when she still has trouble understanding them herself? "They're almost too good to be true, if that makes sense. Very sweet and kind, and still madly in love with each other after all these years."

"They're still together?" She can't tell if he's amused or amazed, and she knows the feeling. It's exactly how she'd felt when she'd found out, too.

"Yep. They got married at eighteen. Apparently it was my step-grandmother who'd talked them into giving me up for adoption, telling them I needed to be given my best chance at a good life." She presses a kiss to his chest, letting her hand drift lower on his belly. "They thought they were doing the right thing. They were just kids so, you know."

"Did they ever have another child?" His voice sounds faintly strangled, and she smiles against his skin.

"No." She closes her eyes at the feel of his hand stoking the small of her back, then lower still. It's never been easier to have this conversation, and she is almost afraid to wonder why that might be. "We're all still getting to know each other, which can be a little intense." _Something of an understatement. _"Maybe it would be less intense if they'd had another baby after me. I mean, my adoptive parents cared about me, but David and Mary Margaret are something else when it comes to the warm and fuzzy stakes."

He presses a kiss to her shoulder. "I guess that explains why they're in Maine and you're still in Chicago."

She laughs softly. "Very perceptive of you."

He shifts on the bed until he's facing her, one lean thigh sliding between hers, his hand stroking her hip lightly beneath the starched hotel sheet. "They must have been very happy you'd found them."

Once again, she's glad of the darkness, feeling the dull prickle of tears behind her eyelids. This is why she waits for a few months before she has this conversation with someone she's dating, which is why she hardly ever has to have this conversation. "They were."

The hand on her hip skims upwards, then his palm is warm against her breast, his thumb circling her nipple, making her bite down on her bottom lip as it instantly reacts to his touch. "I'm tempted to say something about how I know how they feel, but I suspect you'd find that clichéd and trite."

She leans forward, finding his lips in the darkness, because she doesn't want to talk about feelings anymore. Not tonight. "Probably best not to find out," she whispers, then his mouth covers her in a kiss that sends a spasm of desire rippling through her, and all conversation is forgotten.

It's slower this time, more deliberate, almost as though he's trying to memorise her and maybe he is, because on Monday morning they'll be flying home in two different directions and she can't bear to think about that now, not when he's making her feel things she hasn't felt in years.

It isn't long before the fire inside her starts to catch, the darkness pressing in around them as he slides his hand between them to where he's buried deep inside her. He breathes her name and curses softly, angling his hips in such a way that both of them are gasping and clinging and _fuck_ she is losing herself in the heat of him, her fingernails digging into his shoulders as everything tightens and then dissolves in a pulsing release that has her writhing beneath him, pushing her hips up into his again and again until it's finally too much, she can't take anymore, then he's shuddering above her, his body growing still in agonised anticipation for a few seconds, then he's lost too, tumbling over the edge with her name on his lips.

"Emma. Oh,_ Emma_-" He buries his face against her shoulder, his breath coming in unsteady gulps. She smooths back his damp, tousled hair, then rubs her palm against the stubble that adorns his jaw, smiling in the darkness. She can still feel the goosebump inducing scrape of that stubble against her throat and breasts, and she has the feeling she's going to have to be creative with her wardrobe choices in the morning.

Speaking of which –

She switches on the lamp before fumbling for her phone on his nightstand, managing to pick up it on the second try. "What time should I set the alarm for?"

He eases himself off her with a sated groan, but doesn't completely move away. Hooking one arm around her waist, he bestows a sleepy kiss on her collarbone. "How about never?"

"I don't think that's an option." She frowns at the time on her phone (God, it is seriously two in the morning already?) and reluctantly sets the alarm for 7:00 am. That done, she slides it back onto the nightstand and flicks off the lamp, burrowing back down into his bed and his arms, letting him pull her back against him as though it's the most natural thing in the world.

It's only as she's drifting off to sleep that she realises that the thought of leaving him and sleeping in her own bed didn't even occur. If she wasn't so tired, maybe she'd be worried that she's getting in way over her head here, but right now, this is where she wants to be. Besides, she can worry in the morning, right?

She closes her eyes, feeling beyond exhausted and more than a little ravished, and the last thing she remembers is a soft kiss on the back of her neck.


	5. Chapter 5

"Fuck."

Frowning, he turns his face into the pillow, because he's tired and his head is aching and why the bloody hell is the room so bright?

"_Fuck!_"

He opens his eyes, and hazily registers two things: he's alone in the bed, and Emma Swan seems to be enacting the opening scene from 'Four Weddings and a Funeral' all by herself. There is a thumping sound, then another muttered string of curse words, and he smiles, resigning himself to being awake.

"Not that I don't appreciate a woman who can swear like a navvy, love," he drawls as he watches her practically sprint back into the bathroom to grab something from the vanity, "but what's got you in such a rush?"

Dressed in jeans and a black turtleneck sweater, she's apparently too busy frantically pulling her hair back into a high ponytail to look at him. "My freaking alarm didn't go off, and now I have to be downstairs in ten minutes to sit through a three hour presentation on something about how to become a rainmaker."

He watches as she bends down to pick her boots. It's quite the inspiring view, to say the least, and he'd be a different man if he didn't at least try to coax her into forgetting the morning's program. "Perhaps you should come back to bed instead?"

She huffs out a loud breath, still very obviously not looking at him. "That'd be great, but I can't." Having finally shoved her feet into her boots, she picks up her purse from the desk where she'd tossed it last night. "One of the partners is attending this one with me, so I can't lounge around in bed all morning." She doesn't say _unlike some people, _but he imagines he hears the words anyway. "God, I need coffee." She finally looks at him, and he sees an anxiety in her face that can't be explained away by being late or being hungover.

"Swan-"

"I gotta go or I'll be late." She hesitates for a few seconds, her eyes widening in what looks like panic when she sees him move to throw back the covers. "See you this afternoon."

It's not until she's rushed out of the room that he realises he doesn't even have her cell phone number to call or text her during the course of what he suspects is going to be a very long day.

Rolling onto his back, he utters a few choice curse words of his own as he massages his aching temples with his thumbs. God, what he'd give to lounge around in bed all morning, as Emma had so succinctly put it, but he suspects lounging alone after last night would be quite the hollow victory. While his sheets and pillow admittedly still carry a trace of her perfume, they're a poor substitute for the real thing. He sighs, then flings back the bedcovers. God only knows what interrogation awaits him this morning. He wonders if Tink and Smee have already been comparing disapproving notes about his behaviour over their bacon and eggs.

A few minutes later, he catches sight of himself in the bathroom mirror and winces. "Looking a bit rough there, mate," he informs his reflection, then spots something that definitely wasn't there yesterday. His reflection breaks into a slow grin, because Emma Swan seems to have left him a souvenir in the form of a rather large red lovebite, just above his collarbone. _That would have been during the third go around_, he thinks with remembered glee, and the reason for Emma's choice of high-necked sweater suddenly becomes clear.

His grin widens. If nothing else, she'll at least be thinking of precisely _why _she had to cover up all that delectable skin of hers this morning. Hopefully, she'll remember the _who _part of that equation as well.

His mood improves at the thought, but it doesn't last long. He stops at the coffee cart in the foyer, but Emma is nowhere to be seen and, as he'd predicted, he's met with the Boston office's version of catcalls when he arrives at their table for breakfast. "The prodigal son returns," smirks Tink, and he gives her a little bow he knows will greatly irritate her.

"I could hardly let you lot face the dreaded-" he pauses, realising he has no idea what session they're attending this morning. "What are we learning today?"

Tink consults her phone. "Teaching old litigators new tricks."

"Outstanding." He slides into the empty chair beside Smee, bumping the other man's shoulder with his. "No hard feelings, hey, William?"

"Easy for you to say," Smee retorted as he speared a rasher of bacon with his fork. "You're not the one whose buttons popped off his shirt when he got grabbed in a nightclub last night."

Killian takes a long sip from his takeaway coffee, smiling at the memory of Emma's hands tangled in his shirtfront in the darkness of the chill-out lounge. "That's what you think, mate."

On his either side, Tink sighs. "Can I have a word?"

"Too early for_ this_." Smee pushes back his chair and picks up his empty plate, obviously intended to make himself scarce and acquire more bacon at the same time. Tink waits until he's gone, then gives Killian a long look.

"No point asking what you got up to last night, is there?"

"Not really." He doesn't want to hurt her feelings, but he's tired of the well-meaning lectures. They'd shagged a few times when he first moved to Boston, most a matter of geography and loneliness rather than anything deeper, but that was a long time ago, and since then they've been friends, except on those occasions when she fancies herself his self-appointed moral compass, of course. "So let's not, shall we?"

"You really like this one, don't you?"

He smarts at the 'this one' reference, and that really should be a huge red flag, as should the fact he was prepared to punch Smee in the face last night. "Perhaps."

"I'm not trying to give you a hard time, you know." He shrugs at that, and she shakes her head. "I'm just worried that this going to be like the others."

He scowls at the tablecloth, but he knows very well what she means by 'the others'. He's fallen before, thought he'd found someone to clear the dark cobwebs of Milah's memory out of his heart, only to realise that he was seeing things that weren't really there.

_Smee was right,_ he thinks. _ It's far too early for this._ "How about we just worry about how we're going to get through this special day of learning?"

Tink shakes her head again, but finally lets him be, going back to picking at her breakfast. He sticks to his coffee, the thought of food a little too much after last night's overconsumption. That sake had been particularly brutal.

He'd been right about one thing. It's a very long day, and he doesn't manage to catch sight of Emma once. He sees Ruby and Victor at a distance at one point, but doesn't try to draw their attention. There's only one person from the Chicago office he's interested in seeing, and she once again appears to have done a vanishing act.

It occurs to him much later, as he finally bids his colleagues farewell for the afternoon and heads up to the fourth floor, that perhaps Emma has decided to vanish altogether, perhaps leaving a day earlier than scheduled. The thought has him pressing the lift button a little harder, then walking down the hallway to Room 47 very quickly. Surely she wouldn't have been that overwhelmed by the situation that it was easier to run away? Thinking of the anxious, almost frightened look he'd seen in her eyes that morning, he walks a little faster.

She's not in their room, but her suitcase is still tucked into the corner closest to her bed, her toiletries still scattered on the bathroom vanity. The wave of relief that washes over him is a fairly clear indication of exactly how much trouble he is in with this woman.

By the time she finally pushes open the door, he's kicked off his trainers and is sprawled on his bed in a t-shirt and jeans, pretending to be interested in the complimentary newspaper. He'd like to think his greeting is a casual one, but she'd have to be a blind woman not to notice how pleased he sounds that she decided not to do a runner back to Chicago.

She smiles brightly at the sight of him, then seems to catch herself. "Hey."

He gets to his feet, tossing the newspaper onto the bed behind him. "How was your day, Swan?"

"Overwhelming." She puts her purse and phone carefully onto the bedside table. _Her_ bedside table, to be precise, but he tries not to analyse that fact too much. "How about you?"

"I'm knackered," he tells her in a dreadful cockney accent, and earns a smile as his reward.

She drops to sit on the side of her bed, and eases off her boots. "Amazing how listening can be exhausting."

"Pretending to listen is even more tiring."

She laughs softly as she pulls the band from her ponytail, and he watches, like a moth drawn to a flame, as the golden mass tumbles to her shoulders. "Spoken like a true professional."

Last night that tousled curtain of glorious hair was trailing over his body in ways that will be branded into his brain forever, and it's all he can do to tear his eyes away. "Have you eaten?"

She blinks at the abrupt subject change, then shakes her head. "Not yet."

_Good_, he thinks. If tonight's the last night he'll have, then he doesn't want to waste another moment of it. "Want to grab some dinner?"

She hesitates, biting her bottom lip, then shakes her head. "I'm a bit tired, actually"

Okay, so her reaction isn't ideal, but he's nothing if not flexible. "Room service pizza?"

The tension in her face eases. "Sure, why not." She gets to her feet and slowly walks towards the bathroom. "We can celebrate our last night of being roommates."

She stops abruptly, her gaze locking with his, as if suddenly realising exactly what she's just said, and something in the pit of his stomach tightens as the words linger in the air between them. At the finality of them and the way she seems perfectly fine with the prospect of going their separate ways in a few hours. _Fool_, he rebukes himself, _what did you think was going to happen? That she'd be interested in a long-distance relationship on the strength of one night together?_

"Look, Emma-"

"Uh, I'm going to have a shower." She gives him a quick smile that doesn't quite reach her eyes. "I didn't have time this morning and I've felt half-asleep all day."

The lack of shower isn't the real reason she's tired, and they both know it. She's running away. Again. He takes a hesitant step towards her, feeling unpleasantly as though they're back at square one, even after everything that happened between them last night. "Everything alright, Swan?"

"Sure." Then she's slipping away again, this time into the bathroom, shutting the door firmly behind her with a loud click.

He looks at the closed door for a moment, and knows she may as well already be back in Chicago for all the distance he feels between them. Swearing under his breath, he goes in search of the room service menu, because if he's going to be miserable, he may as well be well-fed at the same time.

* * *

Alone with her thoughts for the first time in hours, Emma turns up the water as hot as she can stand it, revelling in the kind of water pressure she's never had in any home she's ever had, the kind that makes her skin come alive with a stinging pleasure.

She's hiding from him, of course. Hiding from him and how she's starting to feel about him, trying to drown out the fact she's been thinking about him all day with hot water and complimentary body wash. At least this morning she'd had the excuse of having to be somewhere else (God, it had taken every ounce of her willpower not to crawl back into bed with him) but now it's just the two of them in this little hotel room, and unless she wants to crash Ruby and Victor's date or take herself off to a solo movie session, she's going to have to deal with it. She washes her hair, relieved to finally be rid of yesterday's dirt and hairspray, then reaches for the loofah. She closes her eyes as she slides the sponge gently over her breasts and between her legs, the brush of its faintly rough texture making her tender flesh twinge pleasantly. She swallows hard, but the memories of last night are already flooding her thoughts and there's no point in pretending otherwise. _Shit._ Hotel rooms have never really had an erotic effect on her, but now she knows she'll never be able to look at a reservations website again without spontaneously combusting.

She leans against the cool tiles, the loofah dangling loosely from her fingers, suddenly feeling deflated. What was she thinking, suggesting a romantic 'last supper' with someone she's only just met and who will probably be only too happy to move onto his next conquest as soon as he's back in Boston? She can't let herself get in any deeper here, she tells herself with faint desperation. She_ has_ to make sure last night was a one-time thing, because tomorrow morning she's flying back to Chicago and the real world. It would be beyond stupid to get any more involved with this guy, no matter how well they've clicked. _Fuck,_ the things he'd made her feel last night -

"Swan?"

The sound of Killian's voice outside the bathroom door makes her start in surprise. "What?"

"Before I order room service, do you want white or red wine?" At least, that's what she thinks he says. Between the running water and the closed door, it's hard to tell.

She takes a deep breath, knowing she's playing with fire, but also knowing that she doesn't care. "Come in, I can't hear you."

The door opens, and she feels the cool air from the bedroom drift in, curling down through the top of the shower stall. "

He's still standing in the doorway, she realises, as if reluctant to come into the room. Looking at the clear glass shower door that conceals absolutely nothing, she understands his hesitation. They might have already seen each other naked, but this is something different. Rinsing the last of the conditioner from her hair, she wipes the water from her eyes, feeling the familiar slow burn low in her belly, her breasts tightening at the memory of his hands and mouth. If she'd been waiting for a sign that she's fighting a losing battle not to get in any deeper here, she may have just found it. "Yes."

He steps into the room slowly, his gaze immediately locking with hers, as though determined not to invade her privacy by letting it slide below her chin. "What wine would you prefer? White or red?" The question sounds a little different this time, as though he's having trouble remembering the words. His eyes stay resolutely on her face, though, and she's suddenly filled with the urge to see how far she can push him, because seriously, right now that ' one-time thing' theory can go to hell.

"Sorry, I still can't hear you," she says in a sing-song voice, watching him through the glass. "You need to come closer."

His eyes darken with a hunger that has nothing to do with room service, and her fingers flex on the loofah in her hand. She wants to say something more, perhaps about how she doesn't actually care about food or wine, then he's walking towards her and pulling open the shower screen, his gaze sliding from her face down to her breasts, then lower still. His chest expands as he takes a deep breath, his hands gripping the edge of the shower door. Feeling unaccustomedly like a siren, she steps back in silent invitation, water still streaming over her skin, waiting.

His hands are clumsy in their urgency as he pulls his t-shirt over his head and tosses it to the floor, shucking off his jeans and boxers in one smooth motion, throwing them aside just as carelessly. When he steps into the shower and gathers her into his arms, she rises up on her toes, lifting her face to his as he bows his head to kiss her. The silken stiffness of his erection presses against her belly, and she feels the thrum of her pulse grow tight and heavy, fluttering at the back of her throat, the tips of her breasts, between her thighs. "God, you're beautiful," he mutters against her mouth as he slides his hands over her hips, fingertips dancing over her ribs, the undersides of her breasts.

"You're not so bad yourself," she mutters unsteadily as she winds her arms around his neck, nipping at his shoulder with her teeth, tasting the salt of his skin. A crooked smile tugs at his lips, then his hands are slick on her breasts, her thighs, between her legs. Steam rises between them, thick and fragrant with the scent of citrus body wash, and she feels as though she's drowning in his arms. He bends his head to her breasts, his mouth as hot as the water beating down on her skin, the gentle tug of his lips on her nipple sending a flash of heat straight to her groin.

Arching against him, she slides one hand between them, finding the rigid length of his erection. A low groan rumbles in his chest as he arches into her touch, a shudder going through him as she slides her soap-slicked fingers over smooth, heated flesh, cupping and stroking. "Jesus, Emma-" His mouth finds hers, hot and urgent, his tongue sliding deep into her mouth, his hands seeming to touch her everywhere at once. She feels the same dissolving sensation she felt last night, as though her body might melt into his, the heat from his mouth and hands spreading across her skin. His hand grips her thigh, pulling it high, opening her up to him, trapping her hand between them. Her fingers are slippery against his stomach as she pulls her hand free, then the cool tiles are hard against her back, the ridge of his erection pressing between her legs, right _there_, right where she needs him and _oh, God,_ they need a condom _now_.

"Condom," she manages to say, her voice thick with desire, and he lifts his head to stare at her, his hands growing still.

"Do you want the bed?"

"No." She shakes her head carefully, feeling as though even that simple gesture might break the spell. Holding his gaze with hers, she slides her hands down his wet back to grip his bottom, digging her fingers into lean muscle as she pulls him hard against her, water streaming between and over them. "Here." She can't begin to explain why she needs to stay here or that the mere thought of what they're about to do is almost enough to push her over the edge, only that she does and that it is. "Please."

He leaves her only long enough to dash into the bedroom to grab a condom from his bedside table, and they're the quickest (and wettest) ten steps she's ever seen anyone take. She adjusts the shower with hands that aren't quite steady, turning it down to a light, warm spray. When he's beside her once more, she takes his face in her hands and kisses him, feeling almost drunk on the taste of him. His hands are under her bottom, pulling her up as he presses her back against the tiles. Her legs wrap around his hips, opening her body up to him, and everything is suddenly a perfect fit. He kisses her as he slides inside her, a warm, slick invasion of smooth skin and hard flesh, and she tastes his groan of pleasure on her tongue.

"I've been thinking of this," he mutters, his voice rough with need. "It's been bloody torture all weekend, love, being stuck outside that bloody door, knowing you were naked and wet and slippery on the other side of it."

She's not usually one for talking during sex, but _holy shit,_ his words have her shuddering, his hands tight on her hips as he starts to move inside her, slow and deep, and she knows this is going to be over all too soon. "God, please, Killian-" Every stroke touches her exactly where she needs it, both inside and out, and it feels like no more than a minute passes before the heavy beat of arousal deep inside her grows thick and heavy, pulling everything tight, the blood rising beneath taut, flushed skin.

She presses her forehead against his when she comes, whispering his name into the steam, then his mouth is on hers, hard and hungry, his shoulders rigid with tension as he moves inside her, once, twice, three times. When he begins to shake, a rough groan tearing from his throat, she wraps her arms tighter around his shoulders, holding him close. She rides out the delicate aftershocks of her own release, arching against him as his body dissolves into the heat of hers, his face a picture of agonized delight she knows will be forever burned into her memory. One arm goes around her waist, the other braced on the shower wall behind her, and they huddle together for what feels like a long time, his chin on her shoulder, his breath unsteady in her ear.

Finally he takes a deep breath, his chest rising against her still-tingling breasts. "Not a witch after all," he murmurs against her throat, and she feels the delicate touch of his tongue, as though he's tasting the scattered droplets of water on her skin. "You're a bloody siren."

Once again, he's articulated her private thought, and she feels a flicker of something that might just be defeat. Why the hell did she think that she could get away with doing this again without feeling something? She lets her legs slide down his water-slicked thighs, her feet unsteady as they hit the shower floor. He cups her face in his hands as their bodies slide apart, a faint frown creasing his forehead.

"You alright there, love?"

She nods, feeling the sudden urge to laugh. She's just had one of the most amazing sexual experiences of her life - why wouldn't she be okay? "Just having a few issues with my motor skills."

More than a hint of satisfaction gleams in his eyes as he bends his head to kiss her. "I do an excellent fireman's lift."

The mental picture of him hauling her naked through the hotel suite over one shoulder is almost enough to push her towards the unforgivable sin of giggling. Not her style by a long shot. God, what was he doing to her? Quickly composing herself, she kisses him quickly. "I'll settle for a dry towel."

They order room service just after eight o'clock, sharing a pizza and a bottle of red wine at the small table in the corner of their room.

"So-" She pours the last dregs of the wine into his glass, and he bites back a teasing comment about taking advantage of a tipsy man, because he already knows what she's about to say. "Maybe we should talk."

_And there it is_, he thinks. Still, that doesn't mean he can't try to make light of the inevitable. "I've found that when a woman says that, I'm rarely in for a pleasant conversation."

Her smile is rueful. "I'm flying home to Chicago tomorrow."

"And _I _am flying home to Boston." He lifts his glass to her, wishing he'd had the guts to simply kiss her when she'd first opened the door on Friday afternoon and saved them from wasting precious time. "At least we can split the cab fare to the airport."

An awkward silence settles around them, the first he can remember whilst in her company, and when she finally reaches across the table to touch his hand, it's all he can do not to push back his chair and pull her into his arms. "I'm glad I met you."

The simple words, coming as they do from a woman he senses has a great deal of trouble opening up, slip through the cracks in his heart, making his chest tighten. "I assure you, the feeling is quite mutual, love."

"The thing is, that I don't really-" She breaks off, shooting an unhappy glance at her empty wine glass, and he knows she's looking for a little more Dutch courage.

He bumps his foot against hers underneath the small table. "I'm not usually a betting man, Swan, but I'd wager a great deal of money that the next thing you're going to tell me is that long distance isn't really your thing."

Her eyes widen, and for a few optimistic seconds he thinks she's going to disagree, but then she gives him a regretful smile. "You're right, it's not." She looks down at her hands, and not for the first time he wonders about the 'bad track record' that's left her heart so scarred. More specifically, which bastard in particular made her so mistrustful, and whether or not he could organise to have someone break their kneecaps. "I'm sorry. I just don't see the point when the whole point of being with someone is to, you know, _be_ with them."

They look at each other for a long moment, and he sees his own longing mirrored in her bright eyes. He won't push her, not tonight, but he refuses to believe this is the last night they'll ever have together. After all, as he so often tells his clients, he does like a challenge.

In the meantime, however –

Getting to his feet, he takes her hand and pulls her up and out of her seat, drawing her into his arms. "In that case, perhaps we should go to bed instead of wasting tonight saying all manner of things that won't change the undeniable fact that you and I reside in different states and that's not about to change anytime soon."

Her beautiful face seems to crumple, perhaps at having all the facts of the matter laid out so plainly (and perhaps he shouldn't be glad that the thought of saying goodbye to him distresses her, but he is) but she recovers quickly, curling one arm around his neck, the other sliding down, down, down to cup him through his jeans, her throaty whisper a sinful thing that has him hard in a heartbeat. "Your bed or mine?"

They sleep in her bed that night (_change of scenery,_ she tells him with a breathless smile) and while the sex is again better than anything he's ever dared to imagine, he knows it's the memory of falling asleep with her in his arms that's going to hurt the most come tomorrow.

Her alarm works just fine the next morning, but they still don't make it down to breakfast. In fact, they almost don't make it to the airport in time for her to catch her flight home to Chicago. It's totally his fault for keeping her awake until three o'clock in the morning, of course, and then being in the shower so long that she had to knock on the door to tell him to hurry up (which led to another delay of soapy kind) and then kissing her so thoroughly against the wall just inside the door as they were leaving that it took several minutes before he was fit to be seen in public.

In the taxi on the way to the airport, it's a replay of their silent journey back to the nightclub on Saturday night, except this time he's holding her hand a little tighter, and this time neither of them can think of anything to say that won't open up a floodgate of _what if_ and _if only. _One difference is that, when they're a few minutes away from their destination, he pulls out a business card from his wallet and slips it into her hand. "Just in case you ever need a good maritime lawyer," he tells her, his casual tone completely at odds with the silent entreaty in his eyes.

She looks down at the card in her hand, then back up at him. "I didn't bring any business cards with me."

The corners of his bright blue eyes crinkle as he smiles. "That's dreadful Business Development on your part, Swan, and I've half a mind to inform your managing partner that you've completely missed the point of this whole weekend."

There's a sudden lump in her throat that won't budge, because he's _still _trying to make her smile and it's _working_ and _fuck, _she doesn't want to get on that plane. Silently, she finds an ancient coffee shop loyalty card in her wallet and scribbles her cell number on the back of it with an equally ancient pen from the bottom of her handbag. Holding his eyes with hers, she holds out the card. "Just in case." He takes it from her as though it's gold-plated, and she wants very much to kiss him, but their taxi is pulling into the drop-off zone and they're officially out of time.

Despite his joke the night before about splitting the fare, he insists on paying the driver and she lets him, because she's got more important things on her mind than who pays for what. A text from Ruby a short time ago informed her that she and Victor have already checked in, and that Ruby hopes she hasn't decided to run off to Vegas for a quickie wedding without telling anyone. Emma deletes the text with a firm thumb, but the damage is done, and she drags her suitcase through the automatic gates feeling as though she has a little black cloud over her head.

Kililan's flight to Boston leaves an hour after hers, but she's only just made it by the skin of her teeth. Standing beside her in the departure lounge as her flight is being called for the second time, he stares at her with something that looks a lot like despair, but of course that's ridiculous, it was just one weekend and they knew that going in, and they're both adults, and it was fun but now it's over, right?

_Wrong._ God, so wrong.

Without saying a word, he bows his head and kisses her with a delicate hunger that has her hands fisting tightly in the front of his shirt and her spine arching of its own accord. She sinks into him, letting her body mould against his, frantically memorising the feel of him, the taste of him, anything that will make it easier to go back to her normal everyday life.

The kiss goes on and on, neither of them apparently willing to be the first one to pull away, and maybe she should be embarrassed, but there are other people hugging and kissing around them and _screw it_, she's entitled to at least one 'public make-out session in an airport' in her life.

When it's finally over, his forehead is pressed hard against hers, his lips still only a whisper away from hers. One hand is buried in her hair, the other is on her hip and she can feel his body stirring to life against hers. When he finally speaks, of course he tries to make her smile, the bastard_. _"Same time next year perhaps, ?"

She closes her eyes, breathing him in. What she feels for this man – someone she didn't know existed three days ago – it can't be real, can it? It has to be some kind of holiday romance gone mad. All she knows is that she really, _really_ likes him and she doesn't want this to be the last time he kisses her. She likes everything about him, even the things that truly pissed her off at the start, and she can't remember the last time that happened to her. None of that matters now, though, because they're calling her flight and she has to go. "Sure thing, ."

Before either of them can say something else ridiculous, like maybe decide they should stay in touch when they've already decided that a long-distance thing isn't going to work, she turns on her heel and strides towards her gate, feeling his gaze on her back with every step.

The flight home to Chicago has never felt quite so long, but she's glad Ruby and Victor aren't sitting with her. She knows they'd be agog with curiosity and right now, she has no answers for them. No answers for herself, either, if she's being honest. Turning her face to the window, she closes her eyes, trying and failing miserably not to notice that her shirt smells of Killian's aftershave and the taste of his kiss is still in her mouth.


	6. Chapter 6

He doesn't go into the office on Monday afternoon. This is nothing new, of course, he can work easily from home and often does when he's not seeing clients in-house. This afternoon, though, he's got other things on his mind, and they don't involve talking a nervous client through the difference between actual total loss and constructive total loss. This afternoon, his head is full of the 5'5" blonde who has left him feeling as though he's been blindsided by a perfumed sucker punch, and he's not quite sure exactly what he's going to do about her.

He'd added her cell number to his contacts while he was waiting for his flight this morning, and he's already lost count of the number of times his thumb has hovered over the 'call' button. She'd made it painfully clear she wasn't interested in anything long-distance, but he also sensed something else behind her words, sensed a possibility for negotiation. While he's not one to brag (except when he is), but negotiation is something at which he greatly excels.

He dumps the contents of his suitcase onto his bed, half-heartedly sorting clean from worn with the vague notion of doing laundry, then stops as the smell of Emma Swan teases his nose. He picks up the shirt and vest he'd worn on Saturday night and yes, her perfume is all over them and yes, he brings them up to his face to double-check he's not imagining it and is _this_what he's been reduced to?

"Bloody hell."

Abandoning his feeble attempt at domesticity, he liberates a beer from the refrigerator and tries to find solace in familiar surroundings, otherwise known as his couch and ridiculously large television. And, because he still has some semblance of a work ethic, his laptop open on the coffee table in front of him.

He steadily works his way through the pile of emails, keeping a disinteresting eye on the news channel, feeling as though he's on auto-pilot. Perhaps he should have gone into the office, after all, let himself be distracted by people and conversation and numerous barista-crafted cups of coffee. Finally, after calling his secretary and making sure that none of his clients have threatened to set themselves or their belongings alight during his absence, he calls it a day around six o'clock. He feels as though he's been awake for days instead of twelve hours, and he knows exactly at whose dainty feet to lay the blame.

Fuck, what a revelation she'd been, and how much he wishes she was here with him instead of hundreds of miles away. She'd look good on his couch, he thinks, and even better in his bed. Then he grits his teeth and goes to get another beer, because just the thought of Emma Swan in his bed has made him as hard as a rock.

They'd spent many hours together over the last few days, both in bed and out of it, but he still feels cheated. He wanted so much more of her. More conversation, more time spent hearing her laugh, more _everything_. And yes, more sex, because he's quite certain he could spend the next hundred years making love with her and never cease to be enthralled.

He stops at three beers, then vaguely considers the prospect of food. He can't seem to summon enthusiasm for the most basic of tasks today, and he can hardly blame it on jetlag. Even his apartment feels different, strangely empty perhaps, even though he's lived here alone since he and Milah had separated.

God, Milah. His life with her was a lifetime ago, but in some ways, her memory was still so fresh, so raw. They'd spent three enjoyably tumultuous years together, reluctantly parting ways when it became painfully obvious that they'd wanted very different things. When she'd died five years ago, he hadn't spoken to her in over three months, and yet her passing had been like a hot knife slicing his heart in two.

Since then, he's been in the kind of unconscious mourning that turns inwards on itself, seeking not to grieve and heal but to cling and fester, making it impossible to imagine a time when life might return to something simpler. Something better. When he'd met Emma Swan last Friday afternoon, he'd had a glimpse of that elusive _something _for the first time in five fucking years_,_ and he is not going to let it slip through his fingers, not when he _knows _that she felt it too.

As far as he sees it, he has two choices. He can accept her decision and make no effort to convince her that they've got something worth exploring, or he can do what he does best - negotiate his way to a solution that makes the most sense, even if the other parties take a great deal of persuasion. Of course, he'll respect her wishes and give her some space this week, because even though she willingly gave him her phone number, that doesn't automatically mean she wants him to call her. It's the decent thing to do, and he likes to think he's a decent man.

Then again, decency can be _greatly_ overrated.

* * *

Emma isn't given to dramatics, but she can say with absolute certainty that this week has felt like the longest week of her life. To add insult to injury, it's only Wednesday.

She's kept herself as busy as possible, which isn't hard with her current caseload, as well as dodging Ruby's constant invitations to lunch and drinks after work, because she knows exactly that that means, and she's not at all ready to discuss Killian Jones, even with one of her closest friends. She knows that Ruby will also drag out her beloved 'not every guy is like Neal' argument, and that's not a road Emma wants to go down, not anymore. She's given her ex-boyfriend enough space in her heart these last five years. It's long past time to change the locks.

So she goes to work and she goes to the gym and she does all the usual things that make up her life but, despite all her efforts, nothing keeps the thought of _him _at bay. All it takes is the smell of her coffee each morning or catching a glimpse of the fading red marks on her throat and chest to remind her that she had quite the weekend, and that she would give anything to be back in that hotel room again.

So, there it is. Only Wednesday and it's already a tortuous slog through a mutually agreed radio silence that is getting harder to maintain with each passing hour. Every time she checks her phone and inbox and there's no message from her former roommate, she has to deal with both the disappointment and the unhappy knowledge that she was the one who insisted a long-distance thing couldn't possibly work.

She almost wishes it _had_ been just sex. This would be so much easier if it were. Yes, the sex had been amazing - like, off the charts amazing - but it had been a lot more than that, and that both thrills and frightens her. She'd only just scratched the surface of him and what made him tick, but what she'd learned only made her want to know more. Had he left England only because Milah had died or was there another reason? If he missed his family as much as he clearly did, why hadn't he gone home? She has way too many questions for it to be just sex, and the thought that she might never learn the answers makes her feel strangely hollowed out, almost empty.

She's one of the first in her workgroup to arrive this morning, and she appreciates the relative quiet as she flicks on her office light and puts her purse and coffee on her desk. In an hour or so, phones will be ringing, photocopiers will be groaning and people will have their usual lack of awareness of how far sound travels. All in all, a typical day.

_Or maybe not_, she thinks as she stares at her inbox a few minutes later, because she seems to have received an email from a Killian Jones in the Boston office. There's no subject heading, which gives her no choice but to reach out and click on it with a suddenly shaky hand.

**_What's the weather like where you are, ? I'm thinking of catching a plane somewhere warm this weekend._**

Emma stares at her computer screen, her pulse doing an odd little jig. She hadn't given him her email address on that scrappy card, so he'd obviously gone looking for it on the firm's website. So much for _just in case_, she thinks dazedly.

His office phone number is clearly listed in his email signature and if he's emailing from the office, she could pick up the phone and be speaking to him within seconds. The thought sends a flurry of butterflies swooping through her belly. Swallowing down the urge to call, (she can't bear the thought of a possibly stilted conversation filled with awkward silences) she manages to make herself wait a whole ten minutes before sending back an email telling him that it's Chicago and it's not exactly summer, so of course it's stupidly cold, where does he think she lives, Tahiti? It's a short reply, light and bright and breezy and giving nothing away, least of all the fact that she's thought about him constantly, every single damned day, since she left him at the airport.

His answer bounces back with a speed that has her admiring his typing skills. **_Warm, cold, Chicago, Boston, what's the difference? Is there the slightest chance you might be free for breakfast, lunch or dinner this weekend? Hopefully all three? Also hopefully, all weekend?_**

"Seriously?" She glares at her computer screen. "Who the hell do you think you are, Jones, asking me to be available at the drop of a hat?" She mutters to herself for the next ten minutes as she works half-heartedly on various file notes, composing several versions of 'sorry, but remember we talked about this, I'm not interested in being an out-of-state booty call' replies, then reaches for her phone.

Of _course _she's free.

* * *

He lasts until Wednesday morning and, in hindsight, he's amazed he lasts_that_ long.

After yet another restless night's sleep, permeated by lurid dreams of doing unspeakably wonderful things to a naked and panting Emma Swan, he goes for a run before heading into the office, hoping to clear his head. He's got a breakfast meeting with the CEO, and the last thing he needs is to be misty-eyed when he should be discussing targets and budgets.

"I have some good news for you, Killian." Douglas comes straight to the point, cutting short the usual small talk before Killian's even had the chance to take his first sip of coffee. "The board is going to offer you a full partnership at the partner's meeting next week."

Not completely unexpected, but still a surprise, and he doesn't have to feign his elation. "That is indeed good news.'"

"You've earned it, and the board's vote was unanimous." After a quick and bruising congratulatory handshake, Douglas starts on his poached eggs. "We should head out on Friday night for a few drinks to celebrate."

Killian grins. He's been out for 'a few drinks' with Douglas many a time, and knows very well that he'd be wiped out for the entire weekend. "Ordinarily I would love to, Douglas, but I'm going to be out of town this weekend." He gives the other man an apologetic smile, because there are only two people he has in mind with which to celebrate this particular milestone. His brother is half a world away, but the other person is much closer. "Perhaps the weekend after?"

"Done."

When he reaches his office, he sends a text to Liam, letting him know that his younger brother has managed to make partner, and cheerfully rolls his eyes at the long-winded and slightly emotive screed that he receives in return. That done, he decides to strike while the iron is hot, so to speak. He spends fifteen minutes composing an eighteen word email (admittedly, not his finest hour) then forces himself to go through the pile of paperwork his secretary has put in his actual inbox, because he's _not_ going to sit and obsessively refresh his email. It's only just gone eight o'clock, and he hasn't a clue what time she normally gets into the office. Just one more thing to add to the list of things he's yet to discover about her.

At five minutes past eight, though, her name pops up in his inbox, and he takes a deep breath before clicking it open.

**_It's Autumn in Chicago, , so it's the kind of stupid cold that makes you think you will never be warm again. Are you confusing me with another who maybe lives in Tahiti?_**

He grins at the screen. "Ah, Swan, feisty as ever, I see." He taps out another reply, this time getting straight to the point and asking her if she's free on the weekend, because he's already wasted three days not trying to convince her that this could work between them, geography be damned.

When his phone rings ten minutes later, the display shows a Chicago area code. Taking another deep breath, he picks up. "Killian Jones."

"Hi, I'm looking for a good maritime lawyer."

He sits back in his chair, unable to stop himself from beaming at the sound of Emma swan's voice. "Well, you're in luck, m'lady, because we happen to have one of the finest in Boston working in this very office."

"Maybe you could put him on, then?"

"And have him steal your business away from me? Not bloody likely."

There's a pause, and this time he finds himself holding his breath. "So, you're coming to Chicago this weekend." It's a multi-layered question, and he decides to cut a swathe right through them all.

"Only if you're free."

He can hear the smile in her voice. "I_ guess_ I could clear my schedule." She clears her throat. "And I guess you could stay with me."

"That's very kind of you, Swan." It's better than he'd dared hope, and once again a flash of that elusive _something_ swims before his eyes. "One more thing, though."

"God, what now? Is this where you tell me you're only eating a paleo diet this month or that you want to bring a date with you, because I'm telling you now, both things are deal-breakers."

"Nothing so dire," he returns, grinning. God, he's missed this. Missed_her._ "I need your home address, love." When she says nothing, he adds, "For the cab from the airport?"

"What, you don't trust me to pick you up?"

"I didn't want to impose."

"You'll sleep in my bed and eat my food for the weekend, but you don't want me to have to drive to the airport?"

"Well, when you put it that way-"

"Text me your flight details, you idiot, and I'll be there, uh, can you hang on?" There's a muffled sound on the other end of the phone, then she's back. "Sorry, duty calls, gotta take another call."

"Talk soon, Swan." Her goodbye is admittedly distracted, but if he were making a post-telephone conversation file note, he'd definitely make a point of recording that early negotiations were progressing smoothly. Hanging up the now silent phone, he mentally cracks his knuckles, because it was time to justify that promotion _and_ clear a path through his caseload wide enough to allow him to escape the city for a second weekend in a row.

After he books his flight to Chicago, of course.

* * *

He's wearing a charcoal suit and tie when he walks through the arrivals gate late Friday afternoon, and the mere sight of him makes her knees quake. She makes no secret of looking him up and down, wondering if everyone in the airport can hear the freaking rumba her heart is currently doing or if it's just her. "Very corporate."

He looks down at himself, as if he's forgotten what he's wearing, then gives her a faintly sheepish smile. "I went to the airport straight from the office."

"I like it."

"Well, that's a happy coincidence, because I like _you._" He's suddenly right in front her, invading her personal space in the best possible way, and she can no longer pretend she is anything but delighted to see him. "Hello, Swan."

"Hi."

He pulls her into his arms and hugs her so tightly she might have to check her ribs afterwards, but that's okay because she's holding onto him just as hard. He exhales loudly, one hand sliding into her hair, the other splayed on the small of her back, pressing her close. "I've missed you."

She inhales deeply, filling her senses with the smell of him (spicy aftershave and warm male skin), and her heart starts to thud against her ribs in earnest. "You're so dramatic. It hasn't even been a week."

He pulls back, his bright blue gaze burning into hers, his lips twitching with a teasing smirk. "Come on, Swan, you can tell me. Did you miss me?"

She grabs hold of his tie and reels him back in, because she's been dreaming of those lips for almost a week now and seriously, she has her limits. "Maybe," she whispers, then leans forward and kisses him, a quick, hard claiming of his mouth that has him rocking back on his heels.

It's over in seconds, but he looks gratifyingly dazed. "I'll take that as a yes then, shall I?"

Her whole body feels like it's glowing, tiny prickles of heat tickling her skin. "Shut up."

When they finally reach her car, he smiles indulgently at her yellow VW. "That's adorable." At her glare, he merely looks pleased with himself. "I know, shut up."

She points out various landmarks on the drive to her apartment, until she realises he's not looking at them at all but rather watching her intently, as though he's worried she's going to vanish into thin air. "Are you going to stare at me all weekend?"

He waves his hand. "Well, there will obviously be breaks for eating and sleeping, but it's highly probable, yes."

If he was anyone else, such a declaration might creep her out, but instead it sends a thrill of anticipation zinging through her, and really, what does that say about _her_?

He doesn't let her carry his backpack or wheel his small suitcase into her apartment building, insisting on doing it himself. After trailing in her front door after her, he stands in the middle of her narrow hallway and surveys his surroundings with apparent approval. "Well, your apartment is lovely, Swan, but I expected nothing less."

She rolls her eyes at him, more out of habit than anything else. "You can dump your bags there for now," she tells him, gesturing towards the lounge room as she turns towards her kitchen. "Is it too early for a drink?"

He hefts both backpack and suitcase to the spot she'd pointed out, then comes back to lean on her kitchen counter. "The sun's long over the yardarm, love."

"Good enough." She goes to grab a bottle of white wine from the refrigerator, then checks herself. "Wait, do you want red or white?"

He raises an eloquent eyebrow at her, and she suddenly remembers the last time they had this conversation and, even though she's still standing at the open refrigerator, she feels as though every inch of skin on her body is blushing. She shuts the refrigerator door and leans back against it, willing her pulse to stop fluttering madly. "Okay, spill. Apart from wanting to chase the sun, which was obviously a lie because this is Chicago, what's with the sudden impulse to fly east?"

He shrugs out of his suit coat, draping it over the back of one of her kitchen chairs. "You're seriously have to ask?"

"Like you said yourself last weekend, humour me."

He touches the tip of his tongue to his bottom lip, and she feels her own lips tingle. "I realised there were a few things I forgot to do the last time we met."

"Like what?"

His gaze drops to her feet, then slowly inches upwards, taking in every curve, his eyes growing dark, his lips softly parted as his eyes finally lock with hers. "Take your clothes off, love, and I'll show you."

Every inch of skin on her body suddenly feels like she's been lying out in the sun for too long. "You really know how to charm a girl, don't you?"

He loosens his tie, his gaze still holding hers. "Perhaps you just bring out the scoundrel in me, Swan."

Maybe she should tell him to go to hell, but she doesn't, because she's speechless with admiration at his sheer gall and because she wants him as much as he wants her. She steps forward at the same time he does, and kissing him is just as good as she remembers.

They stumble and fumble their way to her bedroom, where their clothes are in a tangled heap on her bedroom floor in a manner of minutes (God, she's missed the feel of his skin against hers so much, and it's only been three days) and her bed seems almost too small with him in it. She's breathless with the need of him, from the feel of his body sliding against hers, the taste of his mouth as he kisses her again and again.

Finally, he rolls her onto her back, kisses her once more, quick and dirty, then smiles down at her. "Now lie still, there's a good girl." On the heels of this outrageous remark, he kisses his way down her belly, then his mouth is between her thighs, his clever tongue gliding over her, right where she's aching for him, and she's clutching at the sheets, her heels digging into the mattress.

_Oh, God. _His hands are firm on her hips as his mouth devours the heart of her, pushing her higher and higher, soft and hard, teasing and demanding, time stretching out into nothing until she's suddenly _there,_ on the brink between pleasure and the best kind of pain before her release begins to pulse, deep and strong, making her gasp and twist against the merciless pressure of his lips and tongue until it's all too much.

Afterwards, she lies in a fuzzy stupor, one arm flung up over her eyes. "I'm almost afraid to ask what else you forgot to do last weekend."

Laughing softly, he shifts until he's lying between her legs, the silken shaft of his erection pressing hard against her thigh. "Perhaps I should have made a list."

Wriggling beneath him, she tightens her thighs around his hips, one hand fumbling for her own condom stash beside the bed. "Why don't you just show me?"

With a devilish grin, he does just that.

Twice.

Much later, lying in a boneless tangled heap, he brushes a kiss against her temple, his answer murmured against her skin. "The firm's offered me a full partnership."

"So you really do have the substance to back up that ego of yours." She squeezes his hand, knowing he will know she's only teasing. "Congratulations, that's great."

He doesn't let go of her hand. "Thank you."

Emma closes her eyes, her heart sinking despite his good news. If he's being made a partner, that either means he'll have more freedom to orchestrate his time as he sees fit, or he'll be chained to his desk for the next few years to show he's worthy of their trust. She twirls one fingernail through the whorls of dark hair on his chest, already hating the thought of him leaving on Sunday. "How is this going to work?" She hates that her voice sounds so small and sad, but she's not going to pretend, not with him. "We can't just keep jumping on a plane every other weekend."

"Perhaps not." He props himself up on one elbow, threading his fingers tightly through hers. "But I think we've got something worth exploring here."

"You make me sound like unchartered waters."

He lifts her hand to his lips. "Oh, but you are, love." He kisses her palm, then the inside of her wrist, slowly tracing a warm path up her arm, lingering in the crook of her elbow just long enough to make her shiver, then bowing his head to the curve of her breast. "Deep and mysterious, a challenge to be relished, rather than conquered."

Her heart flips over. God, who talks like this? Killian Jones, obviously. She slides her hands into his tousled mop of hair, pulling back his head with a gentle tug so she can see his face. "What are you saying?"

"I'm saying I don't care how bloody difficult it is. I don't care that geographically it's a bit of a nightmare." He cups her face in his hand. "I want to see you, Emma, and I don't care how many miles I need to travel in order to do it."

It's everything she's ever wanted to hear, a declaration that someone is putting her first, but her throat feels hot and scratchy, almost as if she's coming down with a cold. Her words are stuck behind her tongue, choked by fear. "We hardly know each other."

His smile is soft, almost gentle. "I know enough, Swan, and I think you do, too."

His eyes are searching hers, and part of her wants to look away, but she sees the truth of his words in his face. He's right. He's right and she's doesn't want to be afraid anymore. Not when something so much better is right in front of her. "You know, my birth parents in Maine _would _like me to visit them more often."

She actually feels the tension leave his body like a silent sigh. "Well, isn't that another happy coincidence?" He runs his hand up the length of her arm, fingernails lightly scratching her skin in a maddeningly teasing caress. "Maine is quite close to Boston, I believe."

"You don't say." Rising up on her knees to straddle him, she kisses his chest, his throat, then finally his mouth, tasting mint and wine and_ him_, and each kiss feels like coming home. "Maybe we can work something out after all."

* * *

Three months later, sitting amongst the packing boxes in her apartment, she dials her parents' number. It's a Sunday night, and she knows they'll be home, but even so, she has to smile when the phone is answered on the first ring. "Hi, David?"

"Emma!" Even though she'd only just visited the weekend before, her father (God, that's still so weird) sounds delighted to hear her voice. But then, he always does. "Everything okay?"

"Why wouldn't it be?"

"Well, it feels like we only said goodbye to you yesterday. Not that I'm complaining, it's been so great that you've been to visit us so often lately."

Her conscience prickles, and she does her best to squelch the feeling. Yes, she's had extra incentive for visiting Maine lately (overnight stops in Boston on the way, thanks very much), but that doesn't mean she doesn't love spending time with them. "Actually, that's why I'm calling." She takes a deep breath, because here goes nothing. "If it's okay with you and Mary Margaret, I was thinking I might bring someone with me next time I visit."

"Sure, that would be great. Do we know them?"

"No, you don't. He's a friend, well, he's more than a friend, uh, we're dating, I guess." God, she's a blushing, stammering mess. Twenty-nine years old and she's blushing like a teenager telling her overprotective father about her first boyfriend. "His name is Killian Jones, and he works in our Boston office." _And you need to meet him because I'm moving to Boston to live with him and oh yeah, I'm also leaving my job, but it's okay because I'm starting at the Boston office as a senior associate, _she thinks with faint hysteria, _and I need him to be there when I tell you all this because I think you and Mary Margaret might just blow a gasket._

"Killian?" She can almost _hear _David's frown over the phone, and she grins. At least the overprotective part is accurate, she thinks. "That's unusual. Sounds more like a woman's name."

"Yeah," she says, her grin widening. Even though she knows David's just trying to come up with a reason why someone might not be good enough for his little girl, you really have to appreciate the irony. "I thought that once, too."


End file.
